


The Dead End Nation

by leporicide



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, Crime Fighting, Cybernetics, Cyborg!Keith, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, F/M, Government Agencies, M/M, Medical Jargon, Past Child Abuse, Prosthetics, Violence, sniper!lance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-12
Updated: 2017-02-07
Packaged: 2018-07-23 02:11:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 15
Words: 37,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7462641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leporicide/pseuds/leporicide
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A scrambled together military unit who struggle to grow past their traumas and into one another.  Shiro is a man with a history, Hunk holds a collection of misplaced stories. Pidge gathers what little is left, Lance thinks he's learning to swim. Keith makes sure he can still feel something.</p><p>Allura wants her father to be proud.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Security Clearance

**Author's Note:**

> Soo, I promise to finish my other klance fic but the need to write about everyone is overwhelming and I just wanted a GITS Cyberpunk Cops of the falling apart government AU kinda thing. Yes, everyone is in it and everyone has a backstory which will be explored before/during/after solving crimes because this is violent future tech scooby do I swear to god. I want to dedicate this to Kouji (@hanahaki_) who headcanon'd a lot of this with me (and listened to my freaking out). This fic is a long one but honestly, it's so much fun to write I don't even care.
> 
> WARNING:  
> Rating will skyrocket in the future for: Violence, Possible Sexual Violence, Sexual Themes, Crime Related Issues (Such as Violence Against Man/Women/Children/Animals, Drugs, Torture etc) and others that will be added as the story progresses. This is not for the squeamish but I will be sure to list the warnings before each chapter. 
> 
> This chapter currently has no warnings other than language.

Allura sits at the end of the room, across a wooden desk with her legs crossed and her lips straight. There’s the dull sound of the ticking clock to her left, and the slight uneasy shuffling of Coran standing to her right. Her eyes remained trained on the Prime Minister’s face across from her.

“Sorry, let me clarify,” she states, keeping her hands cupped on the desk, painted nails trimmed neatly but slightly too long for a professional look. Allura wastes no time on airs, rather likes diving to the point head first, knows that what she’s asking for appears to be a lot but it is gravely needed. “I need funding and permission, access to high level clearance with proper security taken for the protection of my agents.”

“Excuse my rudeness, _Lieutenant Colonel_ Allura, but you don’t even have any agents employed.” Allura had forgotten the man was here, the Chief Secretary of Defense Sendak Eberle. Her lips curl at the blatant disrespect of her title but she does not bite the bait.

“ _Chief Secretary_ ,” she begins but keeps her eyes trained solely on the Prime Minister, a small smile on her lips and an air of confidence around her that makes Coran stop shuffling and stand straight. “This is a matter of international importance. We cannot leave an issue as grave as _human trafficking_ in our own nation to the hands of standard government officials. Public scrutiny is a breath away, Sendak.” The use of his first name is reckless, but Allura wants to drive her point across like a spear impaling his ribs. She leans back, her hands resting at the arms of her office chair. The wood of the table smells clean, slightly citric and she can imagine Coran scrubbing with all his heart the moment he found out about this meeting. The image puts a smile on her face, which she doesn’t realize looks patronizing until it’s too late.

Sendak is fuming, standing up to shout when a hand is held out to stop him, freezing him in place like the dog Allura thinks he is. “I understand the importance, Lt. Col.” The Prime Minister has a playful smile on his lips but something dark resides behind his eyes that has Allura’s palms sweating. She gracefully moves to hide them under her desk. “Alright, I will back your project.” He says it as if it’s a child’s play, to create and fund a section in defense.

“With all five point level clearance?”

“That’s ridiculous!” Sendak interrupts, which Allura feels is fair. She’s asking a lot, she’s well aware she is savagely invading his territory. She feels no remorse though, only leans forward and ignores the creak of the chair.

The Prime Minister gets up. “Of course,” he responds. Allura slowly follows him, accepting the offer to shake hands. “You’ll have your paperwork in a week.” She’s about to respond in thanks when he continues, “but only if you have a team by then.”

Coran coughs, obviously offended by the large task thrust upon her in such a short amount of time but Allura has faced diplomats and military officials all her life, has seen war driven countries and lived in the falling blocks of the Deadjoint District. This is a small feat.

“Of course, Prime Minister.”

Allura leads them to the door, lets the Prime Minister leave with one final bow of respect. Sendak lingers, hissing “You need to watch your place, Lt. Col. lest you end up like your father.” The title has no more hidden malice than the rest of the sentence this time, and Allura offers him a sugar sweet smile, even through the rest of his parting words. Coran is already briskly walking towards them, his eyebrows furrowed in anger and there’s a rage in the curl of his moustache.

“Thank you for the advice, Chief Secretary Sendak,” she responds, calmly and poised, her eyes narrow at him but her lips remain friendly. Coran stops on his heels.

Sendak does not respond, rather just makes his exit. As soon as both men are out of ear’s length, Allura’s fist makes harsh connection with the glass of her mirror behind the door. It cracks against her knuckles and Coran is rushing to her.

“He was completely out of line,” he hisses, inspecting her knuckles, hardly having erythema. She pulls her hand out of his grasp and gives it a few gentle shakes before heading back to her desk and taking a seat.

Allura doesn’t address the comment. “Place an order to have that removed,” she gestures to the mirror, ugly and cracked but there’s some satisfaction resting in her gut. She got what she wanted in the end, all rudeness aside.

“Coran,” she says, leaning back in her seat as he fusses with his holographic screen, frantically typing the order with quick fingers, practiced from the days of her early rise in government. She waits for him to face her, concern on his brow that touched a familiar part in her chest. “Call for a car.”

“May I ask where you plan on going, Lt. Col.?”

Allura turns her chair to face the view outside her office, the long stretch of rapidly moving cars, the rush of people, the colors of the traffic lights and the roof tops of buildings. She doesn’t look back but can hear the delight in her own voice.

“Recruiting.”

\---

Shiro watches from his place on the bed as Pidge furiously types on the floor. His right foot is dangling off the edge, gently swinging back and forth as he waits for them to finish. The light peeking through the blinds on his left dance on his skin and the bed, leaving soothing patches of warmth against his flesh. His right hand remains stiff. He knows his sensors are on, asked Pidge earlier this morning to run a system functioning check on it but it feels numb to him. He drops that limb to dangle as well.

“You know, it’s a beautiful piece of machinery,” they mutter, not looking up from the holo screen their eyes are glued to. “It’s probably one of the most advanced prosthetic arms I’ve ever seen, and I’ve been to the shifty upgrade districts in DeadJoints.”

Shiro turns his head to face them, offering them a lazy smile. “That doesn’t make it less uncomfortable. Nothing beats a real arm.”

“I’m pretty sure that enhanced one could slaughter a real arm,” they state matter-of-factly, looking at him through the low hanging glasses.

“If you’re so interested in enhancement, why don’t you upgrade your eyes?”

Pidge rolls their eyes. “For a trained combat specialist, you’re awfully whiny.”

Shiro gives them a helpless look, shrugging before suddenly sitting up. “I’m going to make a grocery run. Want anything?”

Pidge has already turned back to their screen, typing away as Shiro pushes himself to get up. He hunts around for a clean pair of pants and a reasonable shirt to wear, only finding one of Pidge’s “DON’T FUCK WITH ME” oversized shirts not in the overflowing laundry bin. He holds it up reluctantly, debates just going shirtless under his jacket instead, before Pidge pitches in “Tight shirts get all the cyborgs.”

Shiro gives them an unimpressed look, shaking his head as he slips on the shirt, feeling it stretch against his flanks and shoulders. He rolls his muscles around, hoping the shirt would magically become loose before giving up and shoving his old flight jacket on. It covers the majority of the words, leaving “FUCK ME” in shitty orange colors. Pidge is watching him closely from behind their frames, their fingers still gliding over the touch board.

“I look like I’m still in high school,” Shiro mutters, looking around the bed for his glove. Pidge points their toes at him, bending lazily as they continue to type from the ground.

“You forget that before you barged into my shitty home 7 months, 6 days and 9 hours ago crying as a new born baby, I just turned 19. Technically, the shirt fits.” The toes are waving threateningly at him, but there’s a large grin on Pidge’s face, all teeth. Shiro thinks it’s infectious because he’s grinning back as he puts the glove on his right hand. He watches it flex under the leather with a dullness in his eyes.

“Alright, I’m off,” he calls, making his way to the front of the apartment, taking care to gently step over Pidge or any of the monitors and wires scattered on the floor blocking the exit. Pidge doesn’t respond as Shiro shuts the door, cringing at the harsh crack of its old hinges.

Pidge lives near the tail end of the lovingly named Protea District, a small junction of tight apartments and open markets that sell legal (read: loosely) wiring and components for upkeep of enhancements, system management and whatever Pidge considers “good routing and hacking material for the deep web.” Shiro has basic knowledge of handling the deep web, military training and basic seize and control. He doesn’t have the finesse that Pidge has, none of the obvious traces and harsh barreling through.

The apartment is on the 18th floor, covered in debris from the bombing 8 years ago from what Pidge told him. The stair case is narrow, rusted over black metal, similar to the bars on the windows. It takes Shiro a few minutes to make it down, jumping the last two stories with ease.

The walk to the market place is his favorite part. He gets lost in the crowd, blurring by all the tight bodies and loud shouts of venders. He feels as if he’s not himself, not running from his past, not revolting at the sight of his right hand. He feels small, insignificant, and that makes him breathe easy. Or it should until he notices a sharp black car stationed not too far from the market place.

It can’t drive on the roads, covered in crossing people and vendors, the Protea District having long since abandoned the use of vehicles with how tightly everyone is packed together. Shiro thinks he’s being paranoid, watching the sleek car move slowly down the old road beside him. He keeps his eyes trained firmly forward, makes no noticeable muscle movement out of his earlier pace. He heads straight to the food carts.

“Well, if it ain’t the muscle man,” the old man working the cart shouts, greeting Shiro with a friendly smile. “Nice shirt choice, boy.”

Shiro laughs, scratching the back of his hand as he starts bullying his wallet from the pocket of his jeans. “The usual please,” he asks, watching the man pick fruit from the cart and bag them. Shiro pays him accordingly, thanking him one more time before he’s weaving down the market street again, left hand carrying the fruit with ease. The car is closer now and Shiro scans the area. His eyes don’t pick up anyone out of the ordinary or anyone using a blocker. There’s an odd sensation settling in the pit of his stomach and with some graveness, Shiro realizes its anticipation.

He’s _excited_.

His pace begins to pick up, something the car appears to notice as it begins to move as well. This continues until Shiro is running through the district, jumping over moving carts and making harsh turns. He’s trained, he knows how to lose a tail, had the layout of the whole district memorized the day he appeared wounded on Pidge’s doorstep more than half a year ago. The car keeps up with him steadily, until a dip through crossing alleyways, too narrow to follow, clears Shiro of it.

He’s barely broken a sweat when he seamlessly joins the moving traffic of the street. A quick glance tells him that he’s no longer being followed and he almost feels disappointed.

The walk home is quiet except for the relative onslaught of screaming children. The evening signals the end of school and people are working in his opposite direction to get home. He’s a few blocks from Pidge’s home when he feels something is just _off_. The feeling crawls up his spine and tingles the ports on the back of his neck.

Shiro breaks into a run, pushing his legs for the first time in months but it felt as if he never lost any shape. He’s running fast, nearly knocking a woman over who screams at him as he rushes past. Right at the end of the staircase to Pidge’s apartment, sits a formal black car, so clean it shines in Shiro’s eyes from the reflection of the setting sun. The sky is an angry purple.

He’s climbing up the ledges of each floor, faster than running up the stairs and he’s finally sweating when he reaches the top, not from exertion but from fear. Shiro reaches the door, nearly touches the doorknob before stilling himself.

 _If Pidge is compromised, they’d be expecting me_ , he thinks, fingers itching to press on the cool metal and shove the door agape. _Should I go through the window?_

Shiro knows the value of time and without a second thought, he hops on the ledge and quickly shuffles to the window that sits opposite of the door, into the barely used kitchen. The bars are easy to pry off soundlessly with his right arm, he tries not to think about it.

He slips in silently, feet barely touching the ground when he hears the familiar sound of Pidge laughing. Panicked, he moves across the kitchen, ignoring the noise he must make as he rushes into the bedroom, only to feel the cold metal of a gun to his temple and the sight of Pidge sitting on the floor with two cups of tea, one for them and the other for the dark skinned woman who sits across.

“Hello, Shirogane,” she says calmly, taking a gentle sip of her tea before making a face.

“Yeah, we don’t usually make tea here,” Pidge states, leaving their cup untouched on the floor.

“What the fuck,” is the only thing that leaves his mouth before he’s slamming the hand of the weapon against the wall. The assailant has no time to react before Shiro disarms him and heaves him up with his prosthetic arm, feeling the sensors pick up on the gunman’s pulse.

“Whoa, Shiro!” Pidge is standing up, looking surprised and only moderately freaked out. The woman hasn’t moved from her spot on the ground.

He carefully ignores Pidge. “Who are you?”

The woman chooses then to get up, standing gracefully and brushing herself off slowly. “I suggest you release my secretary, he’s not at your caliber of combat so if you would be so kind.”

Shiro raises an eyebrow at her, confusion obvious on his face before he turns to face the man at the end of his arm. He’s skinny, Shiro notes, scrawny with a large mustache that curls at the ends. He looks more like a magician for children’s birthday parties he would see in outdated commercials whenever Pidge finally indulged him and bought the temporary cable.

After deeming the man not a viable threat, he releases him, secretly happy about the obvious bruising on the other’s neck. “Oh,” the man coughs out, working hard to catch his breath.

“You haven’t answered my question yet,” he reminds her, leaning on one side but keeping his muscles loose, ready to move the moment he senses danger.

“Yes, of course.” She has a pleasing accent and an equally pleasing smile, but Shiro can’t afford to be captivated. He’s angry, angry that he didn’t realize this sooner, angry that he got Pidge of all people involved. “My name is Lieutenant Colonel Allura,” she greets him. “I mean no ill will.”

“Impressive title,” is all Shiro can grunt at her.

“Indeed. I’ve been monitoring you for a long time Shirogane.” Shiro cringes at the use of his full name. “And I have an offer for you.”

Shiro doesn’t respond.

“You are considered a deserter, you know. You’re wanted for trial for the supposed murder of –“

“Stop!” Pidge jumps, never having heard Shiro raise his voice.

Allura does not look deterred, in fact, she gives him a small smile. “But you and I both know, that what the file says isn’t want really happened. Your arm is proof of that.” Shiro reaches to grip the bicep of his right arm tightly, feeling the cool metal under the jacket. He’s never bothered to get synthetic skin coverage but now he’s regretting it. How stupidly childish of him.

“So what?” It’s a stupid fucking response, but Shiro is so on edge, wants to punch his way through this confrontation, especially with the look Pidge is giving him, standing awkwardly between Allura and him.

“I’m offering you a deal, Shirogane Takashi, should you chose to accept.”

“This is like a movie,” is all Pidge says after thirty minutes of silence.

“You join the new task force I’m forming, along with your friend Pidge who has already accepted,” Allura says, giving a nod. Pidge immediately looks guilty.

“Pidge,” Shiro turns to them, the same confused look on his face. “What the fuck?”

“Listen to everything she’s saying, Shiro.” Pidge sounds eerily calm.

Allura briskly walks towards him, reaching out and gripping his right arm. “Lieutenant Colonel!” the gunman shouts amidst his wheezing. Allura doesn’t waver, guiding Shiro to lift his right arm for her to exam, surprising himself that he lets her.

“I am offering you a clean slate, Shiro.” The nickname is almost fond on her tongue. “A chance to start over and help the general population.”

“Work for the military again?” He rumbles out, disgruntled over the idea.

“No,” Allura smiles, looking at him with genuine respect that Shiro almost shrinks away. “Work for me.”

Shiro watches her wearily before sighing, letting all the tension leave his body as he relaxes against her hold, so his hand is limply hanging by her hold on him. He feels defeated. “What do you have in mind?”

“I’m putting together a task force, highest level clearance with no limitations from the government or the military.”

Pidge is grinning. “Plus access to the latest technology in prosthetics and computing.”

Shiro raises an eyebrow which Pidge quickly understands means to _shut up_.

“Does this include files for—“

“For Zarkon?” Allura finishes, looking him straight in the eyes, as if she sees right through him. “Yes.”

“Who’s on the team?”

“I’m looking for a 5 member squad,” she states, sticking up her hand. “You both make the first two.” Three fingers fall. “So, Shiro, wanted man, ex-military and international war hero. Do you accept?”

Shiro looks at Pidge, thinks about how easy he was found despite covering his tracks, thinks of the heaviness of his right arm and the warmth of his left, thinks of the excitement he felt earlier and the dread that sunk to the bottom of his stomach.

Shiro looks at Allura and gives her an unsure smile, “What choice do I have?”

Allura responds with one of her own. “Welcome aboard.” She releases his arm only to reach out for his right hand and loosely shake it. “The rest of your life starts now.”


	2. Old Habits

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More appearances, twice the fun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for sticking around. Here's more introductions, more lame science fiction and more build up to my faves.

Shiro’s arms loosely hang against the rests of the car seat, the leather rubbing against the skin of his left elbow.  He’s leaned back, taking the car smoothly through the streets, mildly enjoying glow of the traffic lights against the tinted windows.  Allura sits on the passenger side, calmly looking out the window. In these moments, Shiro finds the time to really look at her.  He observes how her hair is pinned up in a loose bun, small tufts of lavender against dark skin.  She never wears any jewelry, he notices, her neck bare, eyes drawing to the peeks of her collarbone at the edge of where her dress shirt begins.

Shiro can shamelessly admit he finds her quite beautiful.

He glides effortlessly between cars, turning his eyes back to the road.  It’s been two days since the start of his new “life” and other than Pidge getting situated in their new home, a remodeled abandoned military dorm quarters, Shiro still feels they’re out of place.  There’s a reason he left military work, became freelance all those years ago, and something about falling into a routine again had his nerve endings feeling fried.

“We’re almost there,” Allura interrupts his thoughts, casting him a gentle smile as if she was reading his mind.  Shiro returns his own, worried he’s lost touch and gives away too much on his face.

They pull up into a small apartment right at the edge of the main city.  The area around them is lively, people walking around the car despite it still moving slowly on the street.  Shiro has been living with Pidge for the past half a year, in the far Protea District, away from the bustling big city and nearer to the slums.  He’s not used to seeing all the well-lit places, people freely walking around at night. He feels artificial in this environment, feels like his arm makes him look like a bruise on the city’s skin, harsh and ugly and constantly picked at. 

He can feel eyes on him when he gets out of the car, closing the car gently before walking around and opening his boss’s door.  Allura steps out like she’s belonged here her whole life, with elegant grace and perfect poise, straightening her skirt and walking past Shiro to the doors of the apartment.  “Hurry, before we miss him.”

“Of course, Princess,” Shiro jokes, closing the car door behind her as he follows the woman inside the building.  A doorman greets them both on the way in with a short nod and a ‘good morning’.  Shiro and Allura both nod in return but utter no other word.  When entering the elevator, he assumes the position beside her, letting Allura hang between him and the wall.  It’s all old tactic of protection and Allura nearly rolls her eyes over it. 

“You’re old fashioned,” she whispers as the elevator makes its way to the 27th floor.

“Not old fashioned, just good at what I do,” Shiro replies, loosening his at attention stance.  He knows better than to put his guard down, remembers deeply what it’s like to guard a political figure.

“You know,” she beings as they approach their destination. “I was once military too.  My fancy titles, remember?”

Shiro lets her exit first when the doors ring and open harshly. “You won’t let me forget.”  They make their way down the hall to room 271, the numbers hanging by a single nail.  Shiro is the one who knocks, using his right arm for the sound against the wood.

Allura listens for the rustling inside, followed by a muffled “ooff” before someone is breaking for the door.  It opens quickly to expose a young man, maybe a little older than Pidge, with a panicked look on his face.  He gives Shiro a look over, stopping at his arm before looking him in the eyes.  He looked terrified.

“C-Can I help you, officer?” Shiro blinks slowly, surprised before leaning against the doorway, folding his arms.

“Officer?” Before the man can answer, Allura steps forward.

“Hello Hunk Kekoa, I’m assuming?”  He gives a sharp, worried nod.  Shiro almost feels bad. “You’ve come highly recommended by a friend of ours.  Do you know Pidge?”

Immediately, the color drains from Hunk’s face, his nervousness replaced by absolute panic as he backs away from the door.  Allura uses this chance to pass Shiro into the apartment, silently telling Shiro to follow her and close the door behind them.

“I swear,” Hunk begins, sweating as he scratches his arm anxiously. “I only made slight modifications to the engine, I didn’t mean it to surpass city restrictions.  I was just—“

“Hunk.” Allura interrupts, her use of his name cutting him off and causing Hunk to snap his mouth shut in terror.  “We are not here to arrest you, rather to hire you.”

There’s an odd pause between his reaction and Allura’s words but when it happens, it happens loudly.  Tears well up in Hunk’s eyes, his mouth hanging open with a quiet “What?”

“Perhaps you should sit.  Do you have any tea?”

\---

Hunk currently attends the University of Military Education and Training, a hard to test into advanced training school that produces pilots and ground operations for the defense section.  Pidge was sitting on the edge of their couch when Allura mentioned the lookout for new agents.

“I know an amazing engineer.”

Allura looked up from her desk, letting the fingers rubbing her temple fall to the wooden surface.  “He’s the one who handled the modifications to Shiro’s arm when he was passed out 7 months, 8 days and—“

“We get it,” Shiro interjected, gently kicking Pidge’s swinging leg from across the couch.

Allura was staring at Pidge, hard. “Tell me more.”

Pidge gave her the same respect, looking up from their monitor to focus on her.  Their frames fell lower on the bridge of their nose. “The guy is practically a genius.  He’s the best for any enhancement management and design.  His work on prosthetic limbs is unparalleled in my opinion and if there is one man I trust to make edits to my body, it’s Hunk.”

Shiro stared down at his arm as Pidge spoke, looking at the slickness of it, the elegant handling of wires covered in synthetic black glass, hard yet not too heavy, strong but not a burden. “Hunk, huh.  If he’s that grand why haven’t I heard the name,” Coran interjected, moving from his place behind Allura’s desk and the window.  He looked less guarded lately around them, already growing use to the two agents over constant company.

“It’s because he’s at that stupid military university.  He couldn’t afford engineering school but passing an exam for a scholarship is a piece of cake for him.  He’s practically failing though considering who he is and how much hand to hand combat they push on students.”

“It’s decided,” Allura clapped, standing up.  “Shiro grab your coat.”

Shiro had already learned not to question their leader anymore, getting up swiftly and grabbing his jacket.  “Pidge, send us his location via our private comm link. Coran, handle my meeting agenda for today if you would.”

“Or course, Lt. Col.”

That’s how Shiro finds himself sitting on the floor in a homey apartment, watching the milky color of the skyline gently overlap them from the window, a cup of warm tea in his hands.

“You want me to join a private security sector in the government.  Run by yourself?” Hunk is as disbelieving as Shiro was.  He’s calmer now that he’s realized he’s not in any real danger.  He’s kind, is what sticks in Shiro’s mind.  It’s a soft feeling, one he’s been seeing a lot more recently. 

“Yes, I plan to create a small task force to handle international crime as well as corruption within the ranks of government,” Allura states before taking a sip of her tea.  It’s better than Pidge’s because she takes another cautious sip right after before smiling to herself.

Hunk looks confused, scratching the bridge of his nose. “Have you seen my simulation scores?” He looks unsure of himself.  Shiro remains silent. “I’m the lowest in my class in combat training.  I barely pass the mark.  There are tons of others.  Plus, I’m not enhanced.”  The last part is muttered and Shiro doesn’t let the surprise show on his face, merely glancing at Allura.  It’s surprising now, for young military officials to not be enhanced, whether it’s the inner management of their organs or the improved physical capabilities of full cybernation.

“I’m well aware, Hunk,” Allura says in between gulps of tea.  She sets the cup down after finishing it. “You have the ports on your neck, to allow web search and private comm transmission and that’s all we need from you.”

Hunk still looks lost so Allura continues. “You come recommended for your engineering skills, not your combat ability.”  He nods slowly. “I’m offering you a high paying job in a security team handling international crises and crime under investigated by our officials.  Aren’t you bored?” The question lays heavy in the room, causing Shiro to raise an eyebrow at her.  It’s not the approach he would take but he remains silent, watching closely at the changes in Hunk’s face.

The silence is broken by a nearly unheard mumble of “will I get to work on my projects?”

Allura laughs, moving to stand up.  Shiro silently follows her onto his feet. “Of course, and you’ll be funded properly.  Just remember that your team comes first.”

Hunk nods, getting up as well with a growing smile on his face. “Does that mean I get a fancy ID? I’ve never really been able to afford my own identification card.”

She laughs and it fills the room, her hand reaching out for Hunk to shake. “How soon can you leave?”

Hunk looks around at his small apartment, filled with small pieces he’s been working on, old piles of monitors and thrown away limbs he’s collected from Deadjoints.  There’s nothing really holding him in place so Hunk swallows the lump in his throat and smiles at both of them. “As soon as you’ll have me.”

\---

Hunk gets situated quickly in the makeshift base of operations, picking the room across from Pidge, who appears the most excited to have Hunk around.  Shiro can only tell because Pidge actively sets up their computing equipment next to Hunk’s work station.  Neither really speak while they work but there’s this calm tranquility between them that almost makes Shiro feel left out. 

“Now we only need two more,” Allura says, having silently walked up beside him as he was watching the others.  He feels a bit ashamed, not having noticed her enter, out of touch with his training.

“Tell me the last two are combat orientated,” he replies, watching Pidge stretch one leg on the desk as they type and Hunk trying to eat with both his hands occupied with his equipment cleaning. Shiro admits, having their own prosthetic specialist and computing handler is exceptional but at this point, it appears that he would be the sole one handling the grunt work on their assigned missions.  Allura is watching him from the corner of her eye.

“There is no doubt, in fact I already have both in mind.  One, in fact, is an old friend of yours.”

That grabs Shiro’s attention like a burn of hot iron. He whips his head around to look at her, narrows his eyes and wills restraint. “What do you mean?”

“He’ll be here in a matter of minutes.  Turns out, Zarkon and I were not the only ones looking for you.” She gives him a smirk, and Shiro wishes it would make her look ugly. There are no other words between them as she walks up to Pidge and Hunk, giving them a debriefing of their certifications and their IDs, as well as the comm links they’ll be using.

Shiro doesn’t bother tuning in, choosing to rack his brain for every connection he’s ever made in his life, before, during or after his run in the military and freelance work.  His mind draws to one person over and over again, no matter how much it’s followed by _there’s no way, they were caught in an explosion._ It reaches a point where Shiro can no longer stand it, removing himself from the comfort of the wall and strolling to his room.  He lays on the bed, staring at the ceiling light and analyzing his right arm.  Hunk wanted to do more advanced examinations of it now that they worked together, stating that an unconscious Shiro was hard to work with and at the time, he had felt rushed.

Shiro doesn’t want him to, he’s drawn to the imperfections.  He bends each finger, one at a time.  He doesn’t realize how long he’s been holing out until he feels a pull for communication.  Closing his eyes, he activates the cyber call playing from the neck mechanisms connecting to his soft tissue.

 _Shiro, please make your way to the conference room. Our fourth member has arrived_.

Allura’s voice sounds just as pleasant in his head as it does when she’s right beside him.  Shiro decides that he’s over it.

The walk to the conference room is short but he drags his feet, prolonging the meeting and hoping that there’s some small chance Allura was incorrect, that everyone in Shiro’s past is _dead_ and couldn’t possibly be working with him in the near future. 

When the automatic door opens at his presence, Shiro finds everyone sitting silently, all eyes snapping to look at him expectantly.  He doesn’t have time to react though before someone is running at him faster than Shiro can track.  He reacts quickly, catching the startlingly strong right handed punch before blocking the left kick that followed soon after.  Keeping the arm in a tight grip he looks at the suspect only to release the limb in shock.

_“Keith?”_

Staring back at him is the spitting image of his past, harsh eyes narrowing at him.  There’s a coldness there that Shiro doesn’t remember, but the bend of his lips into a thin frown tickles his nostalgia.  Keith looks great, looks as young as Shiro remembers that then it becomes obvious because that’s impossible unless—

“It’s been a long time, Shiro.”  His voice is youthful, makes Shiro nearly buckle his knees in shock before he finds himself decking him with his right hand.  The punch makes a satisfying crunch and Shiro now knows for sure.

“I thought you were dead, Keith.”

“It would make your life a lot easier to manage if that were true, wouldn’t it.”

No one is saying anything.  Allura is calmly getting up, signaling for both Pidge and Hunk to follow her out the door.  It leaves Shiro feeling hot and angry, like burning behind his eyes and he wants to punch him again.

Keith reaches up to gingerly touch his cheek where Shiro’s fist was just firmly intimate with.  He rubs the skin in that area in circular motions.  There’s no swelling, no redness, no tenderness.  Just cold recognition that yes, he’s been hit there, no damage permanently sustained.

“How long?”

Keith finally looks at him again, and Shiro knows those eyes aren’t real but they don’t feel as dead as he imagined.  Keith purses his lips.

“Eight months after the events in Farefield.”

 _“Fuck.”_ Keith had survived the explosion, had been scrambled and put back together, no doubt on government money. “Why haven’t you—“

Keith cuts him off by swiftly stepping forward.  He’s always been graceful but complete cybernation has made him even more fluid.  Shiro tries to imagine the years of rehabilitation, of physical therapy and constant maintenance.  He thinks of the pain of being transferred, the coming to terms with being a government body, paid to be used like toy soldiers.

“Did you really want to see me?” Keith is looking at him and Shiro knows that they both know the answer.  It’s as heavy as his right arm, pulling him down with gravity and god, he would do anything to find the right words to say.

“I’m glad to be working with you again.”

“The right hook really shows it.”

Shiro scoffs, “I think you charging at me deserved a response.” A small smile appears on Keith’s lips and it’s so familiar, so touching of the past that Shiro reaches up to ruffle his hair.  It feels soft under his fingertips, it feels real.  “I have to ask.”

Keith raises an eyebrow, waiting calmly. “Why did you keep your appearance young? I mean, that was nearly eight years ago.”

He looks torn when he’s thinking of a response. “That’s because this is what I looked like when you last—“

“Are you guys done yet?” Pidge pokes their head in, glasses on the top of their head as they narrow their eyes. 

“Were you guys listening?” Shiro asks, looking rather unimpressed. Keith steps away from him to stand straight.

“It was Hunk’s idea.”

“Pidge!”

“Now, now, everyone,” Allura calls, walking into the room with a smile on her face as if she too wasn’t lounging behind the door with her ear against it.  Coran follows her with a barely held together blank look. “Since we have all been introduced to one another, let’s discuss getting our last agent.  Hunk recommended someone who I already had in mind.  An excellent coincidence, I believe.”  She looks absolutely delighted, taking her seat at her desk chair as everyone gets situated.  Keith remains standing.

“Yeah, he’s amazing if it wasn’t for, well you know,” Hunk nods, a similar look of happiness dancing in the depths of his voice.  He’s excited and honestly, Shiro has had enough surprises to kill him already.

“Of course. It’s a minor obstacle.  One I’m sure we can overcome.”

“Who is it?” Shiro asks from his seat on the arm of the couch in the office. 

Allura waves her hands, activating a monitor with a dated military pilot profile of a young man, around Hunk’s age.  Lance Sanchez blares in red at the top of the screen.

Pidge sits up straight for the first time since the meeting began. “Oh, fuck.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hit me up  
> Twitter: @t33thing  
> Tumblr: @ghostering


	3. Lance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The removal is a crude, primitive process that Hunk, despite his investment in engineering enhancements, tip toes around. They drug them up real good, saw through the tendons and bones, careful with the major arteries for rewiring. Hunk can nearly imagine Lance, laying peaceful on the table as they hack his legs away, almost like a martyr.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I need to relax and update fucking 186 instead, but I just love robots and friendship holy shit. Can you tell I love Hunk?  
> Thanks again to Kouji for beta reading it for me.
> 
> WARNINGS  
> Surgery descriptions

Lance is the picture of serenity.

Hunk looks at him, sitting up straight despite the strain on his back and staring at the large glass windows that tower in his section of the hospital.  Allura is standing to his right, glancing at him with an expression Hunk hasn't yet learned to read.

"What happened to him?"

The question is a formality, Hunk knows.  She has probably read the incident report, seen the jacket Hunk has tucked under his left arm tightly, as if it's a secret he knows is too grave to release. Lance hasn't turned to face them yet, the two of them standing behind the double doors that lead into the wing.

"There was an accident." Allura nods, standing straight and turning her gaze to Lance, who is no longer sitting up straight but hunching over and reaching out his hands to trace the small parts in the glass where it comes together.  The blue of the sky is overwhelming and Hunk wants to cry. "It was two years ago," he continues, finding his voice strained and difficult. "I don't really know the specifics but it rendered his legs useless."

The silence between the two of them stretches for what feels like hours.  Hunk knows it was hardly a minute but his life slows before him, leaving only Lance a few feet away, calmly sitting and staring at the sky.

It takes a moment for him to realize Allura was speaking. "He dropped out of the pilot program."

"You can't really pilot without your legs," Hunk humorlessly laughs. "No one knew that better than Lance."

"Why has he not upgraded to prosthetics?" The question is innocent, no malicious or cruelty in it but Hunk feels the sting all the same.

"Doing so would admit he failed," Hunk mutters, getting a curious look from Allura but opting not to elaborate.  Instead, he straightens himself out and makes sure the jacket is secure as he opens the doors.

"Hunk," she calls out to his fleeting form, causing him to pause enough for her to say, "you're a very kind man."

The doors close behind him when he responds, "I'm not so sure."

Lance hears him before he sees him, turning his head away from the window for the first time since Hunk began watching him.  His eyes are ancient, and Hunk sees the beginning and the end in them.  The fatigue of being trapped in the hospital for two years with nothing to do but replay your mistakes over and over again.

"Hey," Hunk says quietly, unsure of himself for the first time since he started university.  He feels dried out of his own skin, hollowed out and thick.  He shuffles from side to side.

Lance cracks him a small smile, and Hunk notes how chapped they are.  "Hey is for horses."

Hunk feels all the tension leave his shoulders, lets them sag as he approaches Lance and sits in the seat beside the bed.  The heart monitor continues to play a soundtrack to their conversation, a steady beat that holds Hunk in place.  He reaches out his fist and Lance enthusiastically bumps it with nostalgia smeared on his face. 

"How've you been?" Hunk asks, another formality today.  He knows how Lance has been, kept himself updated as often as he could.

"I'm good, buddy," Lance laughs out and its sweet, like honey.  It attracts insects and Hunk feels sick. He lets his fingers stretch out, landing on the top of Lance's head and slowly tugging him until their foreheads rest against each other, a habit from when they were children.  Lance immediately gets the mood switch, narrowing his eyes wearily before sighing and relaxing in Hunk's hold.  He's cold against Hunk's warm skin. "What are you here for, Hunk?"

It's ugly, disgusting and Hunk feels vile but his hold on Lance's head remains strong, keeping them in place.  He's been cut and the wound is festering but nothing is compared to the empty stare Lance gives the windows whenever he's alone.

"I'm thinking," their breaths are mingling together and Allura is probably confused on their position.  She wouldn't get it, in fact no one would.  It's unexplainable, Hunk remembers the way Pidge used to react in high school. "I was thinking that maybe, you would consider, getting prosthetics?"

The question is the hanging of the noose and his body as enough momentum to swing for hours.  Lance is retching, pulling himself harshly out of Hunk's hold.  Hunk lets him, feels the soft strands of Lance's hair escape his grasp.

"What the fuck are you asking of me?" The question is there but Lance is angry, his teeth grinding inside his mouth, barely contained rage.  Hunk almost prefers him like this, rather than the dead look he carries on his shoulders.

"It's been two fucking years, Lance.  You're mom is worried, you're family is worried.  _I'm fucking worried_. You can't go on like this, hiding in the hospital as if you've lost everything.  You haven't!" Hunk doesn't care that the staff is watching them now, the nurses pausing in their work with other patients to glance at him, concerned. 

"Fuck you," Lance whispers, rage simmering into self wallowing pity. He's clutching the sheets covering his body in the bed, keeping him restrained to metal slate. "You know, you know I-"

"I know you're scared, man." Hunk is whispering too now, looking at his shoes.  He thinks about the time when they thought it would be a good idea to borrow Lance's sister's car for a joy ride and nearly ended up in prison when they were thirteen.  It took Lance's mom three hours of convincing the police that it was just childish antics, that it would never happen again.  Lance had laughed the whole time, from the hijacking to the placement behind steel bars.  Hunk misses that laugh.

Lance is looking at him now, his eyes are red.  There's something miserable lurking in the depths of his soul that Hunk only catches gentle glimmers of.  Hunk realizes that he's crying too. "You need to stop blaming yourself."  He crouches to reach his arms around Lance, lets the other tentatively wrap his arms in return.  Lance is resting his head on his shoulders, a mild hiccup in between large intakes of breath. "You need to stop punishing yourself."

"I know," Lance whispers, rubbing himself against Hunk's shirt. "I know."  The silence is comfortable and gives Hunk enough time to stop fucking crying and face his friend.  He gently pulls away and watches as Lance's hands rush to his face.

"God," he mumbles, giving Hunk this huge smile that has him weak in the knees. "I must look a fucking mess.  Jesus," he's laughing.

"No messier than Serena after her 21st birthday."

"Fuck," Lance giggles, coughing a little. "She was disgusting. I can't believe you had a crush on her for five years."

"Hey! Your sister was hot." Hunk takes his seat back in the chair, sighing softly.

"I'm behind on school, you know."

"Yeah." Hunk looks over to the double doors.  Allura is missing in action and he silently thanks her for giving them space. "Listen, you don't have to go back to school after rehabilitation." Lance is giving him a weird look so he continues, "You've been hired."

"What?"

"I can't really explain much in this setting out loud." Hunk points to the ports that rest on both of their necks.  Lance slowly nods, moving some over grown hair out of the way to allow Hunk to form a cyber link with him.  Hunk always thought communicating through comm looked fucking weird on the outside.  Two men with their heads down connected by a cable, silently moving their lips as if they were talking with no sound.

After relaying Allura's message, Hunk removes the link and looks at Lance's face for a reaction.

"I'll do it." Hunk isn't surprised but--

"Are you sure?"

Lance looks at his hands, at the windows with the open sky, at Hunk's face and the redness in his eyes. "Yeah," he nods slowly.

"Allura already scheduled your surgery."

"Well, she's confident." Hunk laughs, getting up.  "She was right sending you, you know."

Hunk sets down the pilot bomber to rest on top of Lance's feet.  Lance reaches out to bring it closer to his chest, messing with the buckles. "This jacket is seriously outdated."

"It suits you though," Hunk jokes before making his way to the door. 

A soft "Hunk," stops him right at the doors.  This time, he turns to face Lance, stuffing his hands in his pockets. Lance gives him a soft smile and Hunk remembers why they're best friends. "Thanks, man. For coming back for me."

Hunk nods, a calmness washing over him. "I'll see you on the other side."

\---

Lance's surgery happens that night.  Allura is long gone by then, Shiro having driven her home to the scene of the setting sun.  Hunk remains seated in the waiting room during the operation.  He counts the cracks in the ceiling, the discoloration of the floor tiles, the chairs missing cuffs off the legs.  He's nervous even though he knows the surgery will be hugely successful, knows Allura asked for the best from military doctors, knows that he designed the prosthetics for Lance and Lance alone.

Yet, fear rests heavy in his chest, crushing him with the weight of fallen corpses in a battle field.  The surgery is separated into three parts, Hunk has it memorized like the deep curves of his hands, the calluses on his fingertips from the hot irons and melting metal.  First, is the removal of Lance's current limbs, dead and useless, horribly scarred and burned, twisted in unnatural ways.  Hunk tries not to think about it, how it looked when he first pulled Lance out of the wreckage, the stinging odor of burnt flesh, it makes Hunk nearly vomit in remembrance.

The removal is a crude, primitive process that Hunk, despite his investment in engineering enhancements, tip toes around.  They drug them up real good, saw through the tendons and bones, careful with the major arteries for rewiring.  Hunk can nearly imagine Lance, lying peaceful on the table as they hack his legs away, almost like a martyr.

The second operation is recreating the wiring to his spine and synthetic muscles.  It's a direct edit to the lumbar spine, from L2 to L5, before climbing up to his thoracic. They have to be careful, the editing of each bone, stopping near the top vertebrae of his cervical, where the ports delicately connect to the base of his neck.  That's the hardest part of the procedure, replacing each joint, careful of compression fractures and aligning the artificial network of bones to connect with the body in a makeshift dialogue, robotic and fake and cold against the warmth of Lance's flesh.  They'll finish by backtracking to the sacrum and coccyx, minor touches, keeps Lance limber because despite the benefit to the individual, Lance is now military owned, from the moment he began this surgery to the day he'll lie cold in the ground, preferably with Hunk right beside him, six fucking feet under the mud.

Skin will be grafted on top of the spine, now bare to the world to witness the selling of a soul. 

Hunk likes the third part of the surgery the most.  He's worked on Lance's legs since two years ago, when Lance sat empty eyed, breathing tube shoved down his throat and IV fluids pumping into him at a medicinal pace.  He's analyzed every component, from the tight structure of the patella, to the metatarsals.  He's hand crafted prototypes of the tibia, held the weight of the alloys he picked in his hands, light but sturdy, quick to move in but could survive a blow.  He's most proud of the bilateral taluses, the ability to bend and increase movement.  Hunk designed Lance's legs as he sees Lance, light and strong, built to withstand the terrors of violence but delicate enough to note the intricacies movement.  Everything Lance does has a purpose, even his shit eating grins, so every joint has a purpose, every synthetic ligament, every artificial muscle, every reattached vein.

Hunk thinks maybe selling your soul to the devil isn't as bad if it's Allura holding the contract.

Despite modern technology, Lance's surgery takes eight hours.  Hunk's legs have fallen asleep, his back hunched against the wall, eyes trained on the clock.  The door in front of him clicks open and he nearly screams, abruptly standing up, pushing his hair away from his face and feeling the sweat on his palms.  Lance is standing across from him, _holy fucking shit he's standing_ and Hunk forgot how tall he used to be.

How tall Lance _is._

"Hola señor," Lance says, standing awkwardly at the doorway, probably because it's still a struggle to walk, he just got them for fucks sake, why did they let him out of bed.  Hunk can't look away, his eyes trailing down past the hospital shorts to land on the glittering metal, as beautiful as Hunk remembers when he drew it up.

Lance looks terrified.

"You look--" Hunk struggles to find the words, he's worried he might start crying again and begin the whole cycle.

"Like a stud?"

"Fuck," Hunk is laughing, even as he feels the familiar burn behind his eyelids. "You do, man.  Jesus." Lance makes an exaggerated turn, spinning on his right calcaneus that Hunk put so much of himself into.  He nearly trips, having to grip the wall, giving his back to the shorter of the two.

From this angle, Hunk can see the grafted skin, covering up the spine that stands stark against Lance's dark skin, the blue underlines of color from the metal, black and green and _glowing_ under stretched flesh, reaching up this neck and calling down to his tailbone.

"Did it hurt?"

"Would I sound cool if I said, 'Like a bitch'?" Lance asks, turning to look at Hunk with a tired smile on his face.

"Your sister would hate you for using that word."

"I know, I know."

"God, wait until they see you.” Hunk watches the slow realization that, yes Lance's family will see him soon dawn on his features.

"My mom's going to flip.  She's been begging me to get prosthetics for years.  Wait until she hears that the reason I did it was for military purposes."  Lance laughs but it's awkward and forced.  Hunk frowns.

"Can you walk to me?" The question holds a lot more to Hunk than he means to express, his eyes focused hard on his friend's unsure face.  Lance looks scared.

"What am I, fucking five?" The joke only stands for a few seconds before Lance is glancing at his feet, shinning in black and blue, harsh metal against the cold discolored tiles. "I don't know man," he answers honestly.

Hunk holds his arms out like he doesn't have a fucking care about anything else in the world but this. "Try it."

And Lance does.  It's slow, one step forward, the bending of the knee, the use of his toes to balance him.  Hunk watches for any flaws, any missteps in design.  He takes note of Lance favoring his right, of the bend of his great left toe, as the movement of wiring shooting to his spine and back down.  Lance hobbles his way into Hunk's arms, tripping right before the finish line but Hunk catches him without a problem.

It's the second time today he finds Lance crying in his arms.

Unlike earlier, these are powerful sobs, Lance's whole body shakes with a fever.  His shoulders tremble, his spine rises and falls with his breathing.  "I promise," Lance says in between intakes of breath, reaching up to push himself gently from Hunks arms. "I promise I won't let you down."

Hunk shakes his head. "Afraid to say, man.  That's my promise."

Lance is nodding, giving him a goofy grin that's all sharp teeth and crinkled nose.

Hunk helps him stand steady. "What's the average rehabilitation time the docs gave you?"

"Six months," Lance grumbles, twisting left and right, still not used to the feel of an artificial spine. "I'll do it in one."

"You're fucking crazy."

"Nah," Lance looks him in the eye, a smirk on his lips. "I'm just that good."

Hunk smacks him on top of the head, watches him wince before guiding him back to his assigned bed. "I'll notify Allura, tell her you'll be moving in but with a regimen for your legs."

"Yeah, yeah. I can't wait to meet my mysterious benefactor."

Hunk rolls his eyes. "You just care because she's hot.  I know you've seen her on the news."

Lance sits on the bed, crossing his legs and listening to the metal clink against each other.

"You know I can't resist a woman in charge."

"You can't resist anything with legs, is what you mean."

"Semantics."

Hunk makes his exit once he's sure Lance is comfortable, with the promise to return tomorrow to analyze his reactions and sensors, that pain is still registered.  Lance gives him a half hearted wave as he shuffles out.  He catches the young man silently putting on his old pilot jacket from the corner of his eye before the double doors close behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tumblr: ghostering  
> Twitter: @t33thing  
> If you have any headcanon suggestions or funny comments on tumblr, tag them as TDEN (which I'll be using on twitter and tumblr for updates)  
> Stay cool kids.


	4. Novelty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, character introductions are mainly done and the magic of me attempting fight sequences begin. Time for the actual cyberpunk cops part of this AU.

"Pidge!"

Shiro is shouting through the comm link, Keith feels it like a bang of lightening and grinds his teeth. Allura was right, having a private server, encrypted by Pidge themselves would allow real time connection with no lag. She failed to mention the inability to filter it out during a mission.

A bullet sails right by Keith's head, lodging itself deep within the stone wall of the temple.

"Fuck," he mutters, moving from his position. Shiro crouches a couple of feet behind him, back bent as if he was about to barrel his way through the constant stream of bullets.

"Pidge!" Shiro calls again through their link, Keith finds its just as loud and frantic as earlier.

"I'm trying, but Lance is blocking me out!" Pidge's voice sounds distant and if Keith closes his eyes, he can imagine the pale fingers moving quickly against the keyboard.

"You're having trouble with _Lance_ ," Shiro states, not so much a question as complete shock.

"I'm not saying his walls are good, but he's fast. Every time I tear one down, three more stand in the rubble. I can't pinpoint them at all."

There's a quiet lull where Keith assumes Hunk has run out of bullets. He affirms it when he peaks around the corner from his spot behind the pillar. Hunk's gun is down, heavy in his arms as he's reaching to reload it. Shiro is thinking the same thing apparently, as they both make a run for it, splitting in opposite directions to charge at Hunk.

It's almost familiar to Keith, moving wordlessly in sync with Shiro just like their days in the military. A quiet melody that the two of them share, swiftly approaching Hunk, who's hurriedly reloaded and is working to lift the large machine, aiming it at Shiro's rapidly gaining form.

Keith draws his blade from Hunk's right, blind to the gunner who's eyes are trained on their leader.

Hunk shoots at Shiro, causing Shiro to dart to the left behind the pillars of the old temple, leaving the perfect moment for Keith to strike.

The blade never connects though, Keith's arm suddenly being crushed to the ground by a pair of legs that came from above. It's in these moments that Keith realizes how prosthetics protect him, knows that if his hand was real flesh and bone, it would have crumbled around the weight of the blow.

"Lance," Keith grinds out from his place on the floor, gaze following the long trail of enhancements, covered in black lycra. Unlike Keith, Lance was never into the synthetic skin.

"'Ello!" Lance greets before moving one of his legs from on top of Keith's arm to kick him in the face. Keith quickly dodges to the right, ripping himself free from Lance's hold and backing up. Lance follows suit, taking a few paces back to mirror him.

Keith flexes his hand, feels the sword in his palm and his fingers twitch. He's turned off his pain sensors so it's manageable, just stiff. Lance fully intended to destroy it when he jumped from the second story.

The machine gun clicks steadily in the background, reminding Keith that they have a time limit, have to find the bomb before it detonates, that Shiro is busy dealing with the precision beast that is Hunk, a man who wastes not a single bullet.

Lance isn't taunting him like usual, he's focused. Eyes watching the subtle movement of the blade in Keith's hand. Keith makes note of the box that covers Lance's ports behind his neck. The spinal enhancement allowing Lance to counteract Pidge on the cybernet. That gives Keith an advantage, working the angle that no matter how focused Lance looks right now, he's half invested on the web, therefore his reactions are significantly slow. Keith's best option is to create close quarters for hand-to-hand combat.

"I almost have Hunk," Shiro states through the shared server. "Take down Lance as quick as you can."

"Of course," is the only response Keith can give before Lance is charging at him, closing the distance himself. Keith is thrown off but immediately collects his bearings in time to block the kick. If Lance is closing the gap, and he isn't stupid, there's a trick up his sleeve. They move quickly, like the harsh waves of the sea and Lance is all the water.

It doesn't matter though, Keith has years of experience as well as full understanding of his prosthetics. Lance has only had the implants for less than half a year. Overpowering him is easy, pushing Lance into a corner with quick brushes of his blade. Lance is calm, which Keith reminds himself to be impressed by, watching Keith's movements while mouthing something. He's probably talking to Hunk.

Suddenly, in the blink of his eyes, Keith feels something hard wrap around his neck, the same time Pidge shouts "I got through!" It becomes clear, as Keith feels himself falling down, being choked by two prosthetic legs, pushing him into the ground and the feeling of a barrel of a pistal pressed against his temple. Lance had realized what Keith knew all along, that he was unable to play both guard and soldier, therefore to take Keith, he a abandoned his post to be completely on the offensive.

Keith doesn't remind himself this time to be impressed, he just is.

"Say uncle," Lance is smug, a sneer written all over his face as he continues to add pressure to Keith's neck with his knee. The hand with the gun is steady with practice. Keith snarls.

"Fuck you and your outdated references," Keith snarls, arching his back against Lance's legs to slide the blade to his other hand, grips it before bringing it down through his right leg. Pain shoots up Lance's spine who, unlike Keith, retained his pain sensors.

"Shit," he's screeching, pulling away from Keith enough for him to reach up, and snag the gun in his hands, shoving him down the the ground.

"This is the part where you say how the tables have turned," Keith laughs, removing his blade from Lance's leg before bringing it down hard against the floor by his neck. He watches Lance swallow nervously.

"Look who's outdated now," he mumbles before shifting his head. "Hunk!" He calls, only to see the man subdued by Shiro, shyly shrugging in Lance's direction as Shiro sits on top of the large machine gun, shooting them a salute. Lance groans.

"I've disarmed the bomb," radiates through all of their comms, Pidge sounding oddly pleased with themselves.

"Excellent," Coran is heard through to speakers. "Training simulation is over." The temple walls fall apart, the blue sky turns into the cold white tiles of the inner workings of their shared facility. The stone underneath Lance's head becomes shiny like glass, Keith's blade hardly making a dent in it.

"Well, that could have gone a lot more smoother," Shiro calls, helping Hunk up from his place on the ground, letting the other brush off what Keith can only assume is the embarrassment of getting stomped in long distance combat. Keith follows suit, getting up to brush himself off, not bothering to give Lance a hand. Lance doesn't need it, hopping up on his prosthetics like it was nothing, muttering about a fluke.

"It's not fair," he starts, facing the team when everyone's back in Allura's office. "You pin both Hunk and I, long distance trained by the way, against two season veterans, by the way, we were both in college last I checked. With Pidge!" Lance points at them frantically, narrowing his eyes. "I'm not as skilled as them to keep our security up and hold off two fucking viking warriors."

Pidge shrugs, having heard this rant before as they settle on their side of the couch. Lance groans, not getting the agreement he needs before sitting next to Hunk. Shiro stands.

Allura gives them all a smile in greeting, closing her servers as they sit. "The reason," Coran begins, handing Allura what Keith assumes is probably their skill rankings this time. "Is that you can manage some hand to hand as well as defensive measures. This way, it allows Pidge to practice against common defense strategies and also gives you training against skilled opponents."

"It's win-win," Allura adds in, leaning back in her chair. Lance huffs, falling back lower in the cushions.

"I'm just saying," he mutters, quiet against the rumble of Hunk's small laugh beside him.

"To business." Keith likes the way Allura's voice carries. She sounds like a diplomat, Hunk once told him, someone with power and money. Allura is different though, there's a kindness in her that touches something primal in all of them. Something that quells their fear. "As you know, Senator Shay has been pushing forward the motion of allowing integration from refugees camping out in the Dead Joint District."

Keith nods, has been seeing the senator all over the news, rather bold with her claims of integration. "She's speaking tomorrow night," Shiro states, looking at the picture pulled up of her, dressed clean and appropriate. Keith can imagine her in a meeting with Allura.

The Lt. Col. nods, pulling up the building of the dinner party location the hologram between her desk and the couch. "That's the Odyssey Palace," Lance gasps, scrambling to sit up from his previous position. Keith raises his eyebrow in question. "She's been receiving threats, hasn't she?"

"Excellent assumption, Lance," Allura affirms, pulling up a could newsfeeds of Senator Shay's speeches and interviews. "Recently, there has been high activity in threats being made to the senator. We have probable reason to believe during her speech at the annual charity banquet, an attempt of her life will be made."

Lance turns to Hunk, who gives him a short nod. "How did you know?" Keith asks from his place against the door.

Lance grins at him, growing cocky with a proud glint in his eyes. "Hunk and I both agreed that the Odyssey Palace has the best vantage points in the heart of Troy."

Hunk is rubbing his chin beside Lance, staring deeply at the screen illuminating Allura's face. "So it's most like a sniper."

"We shouldn't underestimate them," Allura continues. "The Chief Defense of Security will be attending and we've been tasked with the senator's protection."

"I was about to ask," Shiro speaks up from his place beside Keith, hands buried in his pockets. "Why isn't this his jurisdiction?"

Allura stands quietly, moving from her spot behind her desk and making it the front of the couch, standing tall before them. "Senator Shay is a personal friend who made a request. It is without proof, but she felt she was in safer hands with our protection over that of Sendak's."

"Corruption runs deep," Pidge mutters, cleaning their glasses calmly against their shirt.

Everyone knows Allura cannot affirm or deny that opinion, so they accept her quiet stillness.

"I'll be sending the building layout to everyone. Shiro, organize a plan and run it by Coran by tomorrow morning. Everyone else, turn in your weapon request is by tonight so that everything is prepared by tomorrow." Allura turns to face Pidge. "I need you to grant everyone access to all local comms in use during the banquet. As well as begin keeping constant surveillance starting from this point. You can make the request for earlier footage as well."

"Sure thing," Pidge acknowledges, standing up. "I'll get situated."

Keith follows them with his eyes as they gather themselves and brush past, entering the long corridor that leads to their rooms.

"Coran can provide you with any other information," Allura makes her way back to her desk, pulling out a briefcase that Keith missed on his way in. "I have a meeting with said senator now, as well as the prime minister."

"Understood," Shiro answers for them. Keith moves out of her way wordlessly as she swiftly exits the room.

"So," there's a pause where Lance's voice cut through the silence like Keith's blade. "Anyone else excited to get action outside of the training simulator?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TDEN is the tag I follow on tumblr and Twitter. Thanks for hanging around:  
> Tumblr @ghostering  
> Twitter @t33thing 
> 
> Talk to me or leave a comment, I'm always up for bouncing stuff around.


	5. Playing Soldier

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I received wonderful feedback from everyone and just want to say a generalized thank you! I read every comment and they all mean a lot to me. Also because I keep forgetting to add this: look at this [ in this universe! ](http://ghostering.tumblr.com/post/147647979953/istehlurvz-commission-for-t33thing-on)
> 
>  
> 
> WARNINGS:  
> Violence, Acts of Terrorism, Mentions of Racism,  
> Also chapter is unbeta'd, my bad.

Hunk has never stepped foot in the Odyssey Palace before, has never been invited to such extravagant events, has never been important enough to validate buying himself a suit.  Yet, here he was, suit pristine by Allura’s choice, hair pulled back into a loose ponytail, standing on elegant marble floor, tiles edged with thin lining of gold. Hunk feels sophisticated.

He smiles to the couple that pass him and quickly scans the room, taking in the officials in relaxing forms, wine thick in their blood.  He spots Shiro standing at the other edge of the room, Allura beside him.  She’s _beautiful_ , the spitting image of a queen, her dark skin marred with scars from her past military days glowed in the lighting provided by diamond encrusted fixtures.  Red suits her, stark against her body, wrapping around her frame.  Her hair is up and a delicate bun, delicate braids tied together. She looks like the veteran he knows she is, proud of her scars, proud of her climb. She’s the picture of loveliness and violence, the appearance of a Valkyrie. Hunk thinks that maybe the setting is causing him to wax poetic.

Shiro is tall beside her, almost uncomfortable in the suit.  He looks charming but out of place, which Hunk assumes to be similar reasons to Hunk’s own dilemma, they just don’t belong in this setting.  Shiro is different though, not an out of place young adult who’s never seen the luxury of living at the high end of the food chain.  Shiro’s discomfort stands from not being used to so many other people wanting to greet him, not kill him.  He spots Hunk looking at him, and gives him a reassuring smile, barely there.  Hunk nods slowly before turning away.  They need to remain unconnected.

“You alright?” comes the hushed whisper of Senator Shay, who sits beside him, tall and large.  She’s built sturdy, muscles thick under her dress. She’s fully cybnernized and it originally took Hunk a lot to not ask why the bulky figure.  It was fruitless in the end, Shay catching the interest in his eyes. She told him she was always a larger person, used to work out with dreams of joining the police force when she graduated college.  Things don’t always work out as hoped, an accident involving her brother left her badly hurt, barely alive and unable to be kept stable.  “If I was going to become fully enhanced,” she had said, an accepting smile on her face. “I would get the body I was working towards.”

Hunk admits, she’s kind of intimidating, her bulking frame fit into a dress firmly, soft cloth sharp against the firmness of her build.  She’s mesmerizing though, arrests Hunk’s eyes each time she speaks to him, her voice gentle and calm.  He can see her in politics, see himself advocating for her.  He thinks she’s the only real person in the room, despite her artificial body.

“Yeah,” he laughs out, a little insecure in her presence. Hunk, again for the better part of the night, feels inferior once more. “Just taking everything in.”

The senator gives him an assuring smile, leaning back in her seat.  He catches the way her heels click against the tiles of marble and gold. “Don’t worry, you fit in plenty.  A charming young man is perfect eye candy for these rather boring events, right?”

Hunk blushes, fidgeting around and nervously picking at his cufflinks.  He wants to thank her for the compliment but Lance’s voice interrupts in on the comm.

‘You’re supposed to guard her, not flirt her up.  Hunk, you womanizer you.’

‘ _Lance_ ,’ he hisses out on the server, embarrassment growing while keeping his outward appearance calm.  Maybe he isn’t so out of place, fake behind this idea of an intern, not a trained official of a secret government task force.  He feels the weight of his gun on his hip.

Lance is practically giggling on the other line, Hunk can picture his face.  He’s sitting on the 26th floor of the office complex across the Odyssey Palace, body covered in black that activates thermo-optical camouflage. Hunk can’t stand those suits, hates how they stretch against the skin, tight and thin.  Lance is probably curled around the sniper rifle, eyes trained on the senator and him through the scope, feigning disinterest but his breathing would give him away, steady and calm, watching. His finger is resting gently on the trigger.

‘I wish we could trade positions,’ Hunk pulls himself together, standing straight beside the senator. Lance has been here before, has attended these events with his mother so often, Hunk couldn’t bother to count.  It’s his element, surrounded by people to charm.  His mother used to pick him out of all the other siblings for a reason.

Lance’s response takes longer than necessary, makes Hunk think he must have saw something through his lens.  ‘You know you’re no good at sniping.’

‘What do you see?’ Hunk is scanning the room. He had asked the whole server this time, not including Allura.  Despite her training, her history, she is an official and can take no part in the operation.  The less involvement of her, the better.

Shiro does not tense at all, Hunk notices from his peripheral vision.  That’s the difference between a trained soldier and an ex-college engineer like Hunk.  Even with his vast improvement, excellent rankings in combat training post exit of the program, he’s still nowhere near the level Shiro and Keith are.  In fact, sometimes he feels even Lance is miles ahead of him.

‘Something interesting in the front of the building.’ Lance’s voice is serious, all business and missing its usual wistful tone. ‘It looks like protesters.’

Pidge jumps on it immediately, Hunk nearly gets whiplash.  In the nonphysical meeting room that is there link connection, Pidge pulls up security footage of protesters standing at the gates of entry.  White picket signs held up proudly, red ‘NO REFUGEES’ and ‘BURY THE DJD’ bleed into Hunk’s eyes.  It takes every fiber of his being to hold in the rage he feels like a tightness behind his eyes.  There is so much cruelty in this nation, as people push against the police force barricading the door.

‘Nothing unusual from my stand point.  Judging from a general face scan, everyone there is a registered citizen.’ Pidge’s voice is so calm, matter-of-fact but Hunk knows that there is nothing that makes this feel alright.

The meeting is quickly adjourned to allow everyone to keep their focus on the mission.  Senator Shay sits tall, strong like no other and not just in the physical sense.  Hunk reminds himself that attempts for her life did not just happen once before.

“The strong will continue to take from those who have no means to fight back,” she suddenly says, scaring Hunk out of his stupor.  For a moment, he thinks he spoke out loud before he realizes that she is getting up for her speech.  He shuffles behind her quietly, letting her lead herself to the front stage, a podium waiting for her.  There’s brief small claps at the announcement of her name, the most audible being Allura, face calm but tense as if she’s watching a lover leave for a distant trip.  Hunk makes a promise to himself that not only would they stop the assassination, but not a scratch will land on Shay, not over his body.

Shay moves confidently to the stage, her legs strong.  Hunk watches the muscles shift in her back as she climbs up the stairs.  The stage is empty except for them and one Palace security guard on each end. 

“Hello local and distance representatives, government officials and—,” Shay begins.  Hunk wants to desperately listen, will probably ask Pidge for the footage of the speech after the mission but now he blocks her out.  Scans the crowd for any sign of unusual activity.  Everyone is quiet, sitting at dinner tables or standing calmly with a glass of wine.

It’s sudden, like the quick flash of a bomb, the sudden lunge of a tiger and Hunk nearly misses it. A woman in a lovely white dress, pale skinned and red lipped, pulls out a pistol. The whole world slows to a grueling pace.  Hunk is reaching for Shay, pulling her down with the strength he uses on his machine gun, barely blinking away from the gunwoman.  Shiro is already pushing Allura under the table, his voice just beginning to activate the comm.  The only thing moving that was fast, almost on a different plane than Hunk, than anyone in this room, was Keith.  Keith, who was masked in the same thermo-optical camouflage as Lance, hidden behind the senator on the stage, sprints down and quickly shoots the gun out of the woman’s hands.

The world wakes up.

Screams blare loudly, mashing together as people get up from their seats frantically, crawling under tables and barking orders.  ‘Subdue her!’ Shiro calls on the server.  ‘Watch the senator!’

Hunk has Shay low, making sure to keep her covered.  She hasn’t uttered a word since the beginning, her face hard as stone. Keith quickly as the gunwoman pinned, pulling her arm behind her as he slams her to the ground.  Her body is resistant to the twisting, firm and Hunk realizes she’s a cyborg, hardly blinking in the way he catches Keith staring during his medical checkups.  It’s dead, hollow but demanding.  Keith snaps her enhanced arm behind her back, finally breaking her resistance to arrest. 

‘There are three more unregistered guests,’ Pidge is calling through. ‘They must have been using blockers from facial recognition.    I can’t gain anything from the cameras, they’re blocking viewpoints of everyone with a cyber-optics.’

“Fuck,” Hunk is muttering, hand resting on the top of Shay’s head as he keeps her down.  He quickly looks around, glad they spent half the day memorizing the guest list’s facial profiles.  He hunts for someone unfamiliar, a contrast to the panicked scene.

‘I can’t leave the senator’s side,’ he calls out, slowing inching their way towards the back exit.  He needs to get her into their escape vehicle and out of harm’s way.  Pidge is waiting for them, seated in a driver seat of a reinforced car, wired into the net.

A body is moving towards them, quick and inhuman like in its efficiency.  For once, Keith can’t react in time, just finished the cyborg restraints on the first assailant.  Hunk keeps pushing Shay to the door, barely looking back but cracking a small smile at the familiar sound of bullet connecting to prosthetics. ‘Keep moving, buddy,’ Lance’s voice calls to him, mildly strained but calm.  There’s a reason Lance and Hunk are positioned the way they are, neither having altered optics. 

‘There’s another one to your left, cyber man. He’s making his way to Exit 7,’ Lance barks, and Hunk hears quick whish of a bullet flying through glass.

Hunk motions Shay to follow him, for which she nods. They quickly escape through their preplanned exit, making their way to the lot.  There’s a man standing dead center, face contorted in anger and Hunk sees him for what he is, a man born of fury and hatred.

“Get down!” He screams, covering Shay’s body with his own, feeling the gunshot sail past their heads and collide with the solid concrete of the parking lot’s walls.

“You don’t give a damn about your country!” the gunman is shrieking, his whole body shaking in an almost surreal motion.  It’s terrifying even for Hunk, a man so taken by his cause to kill another. 

He pulls Shay down under him, grips his gun before aiming it at the offender, crouched down.  The gunman stands still. “Lower your weapon,” Hunk orders and he knows he’s scared but his voice carries a hardness he does not recognize in himself.  He sounds like Shiro.

The man is staring at him, blinking slowly and Hunk thinks how human he looks. “I repeat, lower your weapon.”

It snaps the gunman out of his dazed expression, pulling a snarl as his finger clutches the trigger. “Fool,” is all Hunk mutters before Pidge turns the corner, hitting the gas and Hunk watches as the assassin flies over the windshield.

The car screeches to a stop before the two of them, window rolling down to reveal Pidge, glasses low on their nose. “You don’t play with your food, Hunk.”

Hunk thinks he must be smiling because Pidge shoots him a huge grin. “Took you long enough,” is all he finds in his heart to respond with.

‘Area has been secured,’ Shiro’s voice rings, echoing in Hunk’s head as he releases a hot breathe he didn’t know he was holding.

Senator Shay gets up, gently pushing Hunk off of her, which has him apologizing profusely. She shakes her head, standing up and brushing the dust and rubble off her dress. It’s ripped down the thigh and her necklace, small white pearls, are scattered around them on the ground. Hunk gets up and leads her into the car.  She refuses any more assistance before sitting down, closing her own door. 

Shiro is in the lot already, heading straight for the gunman’s body.  “He’s alive,” he calls, examining the unconscious man.  Hunk nods, turning to head over to them when the car window rolls down.

“Nice job,” is all Shay says to him, something playful in her eyse and Hunk gets the distinct feeling that if none of them were there, she would have handled this just fine.  A thought runs through his head then, that maybe this first case was a test run, proof to those who opposed Allura that this task force was needed.  He quickly shoves that idea down, doesn’t want to think how despite his independence and growing paycheck, he’s nothing but a boy playing soldier.

He’s not Lance though, his feelings aren’t stained on his sleeves.

Hunk gives the senator a respectful head bow and a smile. She responds with an “I hope to see you again.” Hunk finds himself wishing the same.

The car rolls away, almost silent with the background noise in Hunk’s mind.

‘You alright?’ Lance asks him privately.  He sounds genuine, as he always does when inquiring how Hunk is feeling. 

‘Yeah. But let’s get Chinese food after this, because I need to get my chow on.’

Lance laughs at the other end. ‘Fine, but tell me one thing.’

‘Sure, man.’

‘Was I cooler than Keith?’

Hunk’s eyes roll into the next fucking dimension.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We've made it passed their first team mission. Shiro's POV will dominate the next chapter, followed by Pidge and then Lance. Therefore, apologizes about how little action they get this time around.
> 
> Hit me up on:  
> Tumblr @ghostering  
> Twitter @t33thing


	6. Honestly

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I said Shiro was next but here's some Lance and the beginnings of klance finally, jesus. thank you for all the lovely comments, it's literally keeping me going. 
> 
> WARNINGS:  
> Descriptions of past accident

Lance remembers everything and nothing.

He remembers the color of the tops of the trees, a lush green, brighter than the ones that line the beach by his home, the small dips of purple flowers, the soothing orange of Hunk’s headband. He remembers the calm winds, gentle against traveling hovercraft, the pushing of grass in their direction.  He remembers hearing laughter, saying something stupid and snorting to contain himself.  He remembers the weightlessness of his breathing.

He remembers the fire and brimstone.

Lance sees her behind his eyelid now, spotting her standing in the middle of the sand, feet still on the stone of the pathway.  He feels the hitch of his own breath, the abrupt ending to Hunk’s laughter. 

He hears the brakes vividly every night, the smashing of metal against a power core, the guttering of the handles, the lunging of bones.  

Lance feels the way the craft twists, unnatural and violent, being trapped, the sudden whiteness of pain behind his eyes.  He remembers being unable to cry, paralyzed by the pain crawling up his spine before silencing into numbness. When he closes his eyes, he can see her body twisted as cruelly as the metal bike.

Most of all, Lance remembers the screaming.  It’s high pitched and it took him one year in the hospital, constantly rewinding the scene through the glass of the skyline,  to realize it was his own. 

Hunk never mentions the accident but Lance can see it in his eyes, knows that Hunk doesn’t tell him that the smell of burnt flesh is horrid, makes gasping for air impossible, makes the eyes sting.  He doesn’t tell him how he scarred his hands, pushing heated steel away from Lance, pulling his friend out of the screaming wreckage that was metal and himself.  Lance never mentions how even in his static pain, he hears Hunk crying, ripping Lance away from his mistake, listening to the tearing of flesh and breaking of the mangled limbs.  Lance knows it haunts him, especially when he looks at the intricacies in the design of his prosthetics.

Lance wants to tell Hunk that even now, nearly three years later, that moment in their lives haunt him too. It replays every night in his dreams, no longer nightmares because he doesn’t  _ feel _ anything anymore, watches it in technicolor and bright lights.  Sometimes, he only hears it. 

In his dreams Hunk tells him that it might not be his fault, but Lance is still no better than a murderer.

“What are you thinking about?”

The question is ghostly, faintly flowing in the air and cold against Lance’s skin.  He thinks he imagined it at first until he cracks an eye open to find Keith hovering above him, lips pursed in thought with an eyebrow raised.

Sleeping on the training room’s floor wasn’t the smartest plan Lance has had recently. “Nothing important,” he responds.  He doesn’t really want to talk to Keith.  Their first mission was a success, the senator lived to tell another tale of heroism and the beauty of joining hands or any other bullshit politicians squeal about.

Keith does not look satisfied and Lance keeps a steady eye on him. He counts how long it takes Keith to realize he should blink, a way to normalize himself.

Thirty seconds is the cut apparently. 

“Doesn’t look like nothing.”

“Well, ain’t that a shame,” Lance mutters, sitting up on the ground and stretching his back.  He feels the mechanics in his spine shift and turn, effortlessly syncing to match his movements.  The sound is quiet, only noticeable to him because it’s his own body.

But is it his own body?

Keith is unsettling to Lance, fake in every aspect except for the organic brain that rests in his cybernetic head.  He blinks to keep face, smiles to show that yes, beneath all this metal and synthetic skin, something once human sits. Sometimes, when Lance watches him train with Shiro, he doubts Keith was ever human, that even if he cracked open his skull a computer would rest where an organ should be. He’s simultaneously horrified and intrigued.  

“Hunk wants you for a maintenance check,” Keith mumbles, almost soft. Lance nods, unsure what to say. They remain there, hushed as if he was seven again, hiding from his brother during the family picnic, last to be caught in their game.

“You know,” Lance breaks the silence like a gunshot, violent and perfectly timed.  It kills something. “I read your file.”

Keith seems to get the hint, kicks Lance’s feet aside harshly before plopping himself down on the floor beside him.  He lands softly, which surprises Lance before he feels guilty.  He scratches idly at the smooth metal with his fingertips.  

“So.” Keith holds his stare, eyes unwavering and Lance feels nervous for the first time since he took the shot in the Odyssey Palace. “Um, you’re older than you look.”

“Does that surprise you?” 

Lance shakes his head.  It’s ignorant to assume anyone fully cybernized represents their age.  That kind of process would be too expensive, would require a new body every couple of years.  Keith is different though, he looks like Lance, like he’s twenty-two but they both know he’s been around longer than Lance has been out of high school. 

“Why so young?”

Keith leans back, rests his arms on the floor to support his weight.  Lance watches the way the artificial muscles move under synthetic skin, tight and lean. 

“Honestly?” There’s something splashed across Keith’s face, reminds Lance of something very human, reminds him how he looked in the reflection of stained glass after the accident. Lance’s body feels old but he leans in, ignores how his feet bend to better fit close to Keith.

“Yeah, man.  Honestly.”

Keith doesn’t move away from Lance and lately, he thinks they’ve gotten better at tolerating each other in their space.  Lance can’t decide if he thinks  _ Keith  _ is attractive or just his prosthetic body.

“It’s to forget.” Now Lance is confused, sitting side by side each other, staring out of the one way glass that shows the skyline of the city, drunk on the night and lights.  The cyborg must sense his confusion because he continues. “I was in a bad accident.  I looked like this right before it.” Keith is holding his eyes and Lance’s breath feels tight in his chest. “ I looked like this,” he repeats.

“I know,” Lance says but what he really wants to say is  _ ‘I understand.’ _

Keith gets it anyway, leaning back and reaching for the ends of his shirt. He pulls up the thick cloth to reveal his chest.  Scars rest on the skin, dull red, old and harsh on the pale flesh.  Lance is shocked, feels himself frozen as he stares as the risen marks.  They’re ugly, imperfect unlike everything else about the soldier.  

“Why?”

Keith lets his shirt fall back down, covering the pathways of intricate histories Lance realizes he doesn’t have the right to know, probably will never have the right to know.  In the six months he’s worked with him, Lance doesn’t even know what Keith sounds like when he’s laughing.  Something inside him feels restless, unable to settle in the pits of his guts.  

“I liked what I looked like,” Keith hums out and Lance wonders if his voice is the same, if they restructured the mechanics of his voicebox, built the tones and sounds in a similar fashion as his grandmother’s old music boxes. “I liked what I meant to someone.”

The last part of that sentence is intimate, draws Lance in with the promise of a wounded animal, cold in the snow and bleeding deep deep red into the earth. It’s tender and small, more flesh than flesh, more raw than the meat on his bones. Lance briefly wonders if Keith’s lips would be cold, soft undoubtedly with how full they looked, color pale because cybernetic bodies need minimal homeostasis regulation.  Cold and solid and maybe, almost  _ real _ . 

He shoves that thought so deep down that he feels indigestion.

He wants to ask who that someone was.

“Sounds like marking yourself up is the worst way to forget.” Keith frowns and Lance pretends to be ignorant, plays the piper and gives him a smile. “In fact, sounds like you’re dying to remember.”

He’s not amused, lips curling in a familiar facial expression, hard lines. “Why don’t you wear synthetic skin?” It’s a pushy question, almost asked in frustration to cover up for the hole of opening up. Lance takes a bite, knows he’s being too expressive in his eyes, too untrained to be considered a military man. He wonders if he should call Keith  _ Major Kogane _ . He’d probably quit first.

“Unlike you,” Lance points, shoving is his finger against Keith’s nose, tip mushing the fake cartilage. Keith lets him, they both know he can snap the finger off like a goddamn carrot, chew it in his mouth.  He can even turn off his taste buds, wouldn’t tell it apart from the vegetable. “I don’t want to forget.”

It comes out less playful than he intends and Lance’s finger hangs silently in the air. “I want to remember, spent two years remembering and I want to remain remembering the rest of my life.”

Keith is quiet, out of respect maybe, he thinks. “Won’t you get tired?”

“No.”

“You’re going to lose sleep.”

“I already do, obviously.”

“Don’t get snarky.”

Lance narrows his eyes, hissing, “do androids dream of electric sheep?”

“If you’re implying if my brain still functions like a normal human being,” Keith snarls, shoving his body against Lance’s. It’s firm but not as hard as Lance imagined it would be. “The answer is yes, you ignorant fuck.”

“If you haven’t seen my legs recently, you probably missed how wrong you are.”

“Really?” Keith asks, his tone light, as if he’s aware of something Lance has been missing.  He doesn’t like the sound of it, curling his fingers at the ends of his jacket, feeling the leather tightly. “I’m pretty sure a socialite like you has tons of chances to be ignorant.”

The comment strikes hard as a blade through his abdomen, makes him nearly vomit.  He’s shoving Keith off him fast, as if he was skinned.  In these moments he’s reminded that despite working together, he loathes the other man. Lance stands up abruptly.

He doesn’t make a snap back, there’s nothing to left to say that his face doesn’t.  He feels hot,  _ betrayed _ because Lance let himself think they were having a moment.  He let himself forget what Keith really is, a trained murderer, more careful and organized than Lance’s stumbling into the title.  

Keith’s eyebrows climb his forehead, almost looks surprised by Lance’s reaction.  He’s instantly shuffling to stand up but Lance is halfway across the training room.  The exit sign looks beautiful against the night. 

“Lance,” Keith calls.  He’s trying to follow, but he can’t keep up unless he jogs. Lance has long, powerful strides. 

“I have an appointment to make, remember?” He’s speaking low, like a child but he can’t correct himself, almost doesn’t want to. “Hunk needs to give me routine maintenance.”

“Lance, listen--” Keith tries, grabbing Lance’s wrist the moment they reach the outside of Hunk’s station.  His fingers are cool, his skin soft against his.  Lance looks at him from under his lashes, face tight in held rage. 

“I didn’t mean to,” he gestures vaguely with his other hand. “You know, set you off.”

Lance thins his lips. “Of course.” He hates how his voice sounds, just as trained as Keith implied, the same tone he uses at his mother’s dinner parties, his sister’s politically planned wedding.  He cracks a curt smile. Keith lets his wrist go as if he’s been burned and that’s what separates him from the people Lance trusts.  Hunk didn’t let go even when his skin, real flesh and bone and veins and blood, burnt under the metal against his body those years ago.

“Yeah,” Keith says awkwardly and he’s blinking less, probably more focused on Lance’s face, regarding his reactions. “We have a debriefing tomorrow. For the mission.  Shiro wants to tackle some team, uh, tactics.”

Lance nods slowly. “Right, yeah.” God, they are both so fucking awkward.  He’s too old for this. “Pidge told me already.  I’ll be there.”

He spins on his heel, quickly moving to Hunk’s door and slipping himself inside, nearly startling the engineer.  

Lance doesn’t look back when the doors close, but his wrist almost hurts. 

“Hey,” he greets to Hunk, shuffling his way towards the man, enjoying how dim the workshop is.  The only light is the pink and blue of the bulbs on top of Hunk’s work station, swinging slowly and illuminating Hunk’s surprised face.  Lance stuffs his hands in his pockets, looking at the mess of prototypes, old models and new of prosthetics.  He picks one up with the flat top of his foot, kicking it up to catch in his hands.  It’s a new hand design, striking Lance as awfully familiar.

“Isn’t this Shiro’s..?”

Hunk snaps out of his shock, something Lance is confused about.  He shakes his head. “I’ve been trying to replicate it to no avail.  Shiro’s prosthetic is in a league of its own.”

“Huh,” Lance hums in thought, throwing the model around in his hands.  It’s light, almost too light compared to the punches Shiro can dish out. 

“Okay, not that I don’t mind your company or anything, but what are you doing here?” Hunk asks.

It’s Lance’s turn to look surprised and honestly, he’s tired of feeling it today. “Didn’t you want to see me for my leg maintenance check?”

Hunk shakes his head. “No, dude.  Yours is not for another month.”

Everything clicks and Lance bites his bottom lip to keep from laughing hysterically. “That bastard.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hit me up @ tumblr (ghostering) and twitter (t33thing) for more run on sentences about klance.


	7. Cargo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pidge gathers something lost at the highest cost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> guess who is rapidly updating before they burn out  
> you're right comrades, it's me. here's the pidge, the light of my life, the hero of my heart
> 
> WARNINGS:  
> Crime mention, Language, Unbeta'd
> 
> In this chapter, Pidge refers to themselves as a she, just as when they were revealed in the show. The characters refer to Pidge using they/them but Pidge throughout this chapter uses she/her. Fair warning to anyone bothered by this.
> 
> Lastly, THANK YOU FOR ALL THE REVIEWS. I swear I pump these out thanks to you all. I'll be responding to them later today but know that nothing is more beautiful than seeing one waiting for me in my email. Thanks for sticking around!

“Our biggest mistake,” Shiro states, standing in front of the holographic screen, broadcasting images of the security footage taken from the Odyssey Palace, zooming in on the locations they were all positioned in, even Pidge who sat in the car lot with tinted black windows. “Is our heavily placed reliance on cybernetics.”

Pidge knows Shiro is right, they placed weight on Keith being in the front lines, pushed Hunk and Lance on defense, when in turn they would have been more efficient against the attack.  She doesn’t say anything though, just adjusts the outdated frames on her face and frowns.

“Still,” Lance interjects, having been surprisingly quiet this whole meeting.  Pidge watches how he avoids crossing his legs, how once in awhile, he wiggles his toes as if to test if they’re still his. “We did our job nearly flawlessly.”

“We are supposed to remain secret.  That’s our  _ point _ ,” Keith crosses his arms. Pidge thinks he’s also been on edge this whole meeting, a tension growing thicker between the two.  She’s already over it.

“Yeah,” Lance leans forward, keeping himself up with his hands resting on top of his knees. “Which we were.  The only one on footage is Hunk, and his face in encrypted by Pidge so technically,  _  no one  _ was seen.”

Keith grinds his teeth, Pidge can hear it from her seat. “You’re so amatuer.”

“Listen, you enhanced bastard--”

“Enough.”  Shiro silences everyone, even halts Hunk’s breathing beside her with a rise of his voice.  “We are supposed to be working as a team. Not have our own agendas.”

Something ticks Pidge off about the ending of his statement.  Maybe it’s the holierthanthou attitude, the martyr complex that Shiro stinks up the room with.  “But we do,” she hisses out, startling even Keith who had seemed to temporarily forget she was in the room.  Pidge is standing up, growing hotter the longer eyes are on her. “We aren’t focused.  We’re a trained military team and we’re getting assigned babysitting tasks!”  

She knows she sounds frantic, almost out of character compared to her careless demeanor most of the time.  Shiro is the one who looks least shocked, like he’s been waiting for Pidge’s outburst since he stumbled into her life again one year ago. “Pidge,” his voice is steady, she almost hates him for it. “I know what your real concern is.  Allura has been pulling her connections--”

“She’s been pulling her connections since we formed this unit,” Pidge interrupts, biting harsher words at the edge of her tongue.  She knows Allura is trying, understands how complicated wading through the paperwork and legalities really is but Pidge is done wasting her time. Shiro doesn’t answer her, almost looks unsure.  It’s Lance who stands up.

“What are you trying to do here, Pidge?”

The question is not innocent, in fact Pidge can sense that Lance carefully worded it, mulled it over in his brain like the political bastard that he pretends he’s not.  Pidge stares him down, remembers how close they were in high school and swallows her rage.  He seems to bare no ill will but it still stings.

“What I’m  _ trying  _ to do, Lance, is find two innocent people, both deployed with Shiro four years ago who vanished, as if they never fucking existed.”  Shiro looks calm but living with him has taught Pidge the signs, the mild touch of his prosthetic to express his nervousness. “I refrained from asking you,” she whispers, walking steadily up to their appointed leader, ignoring how Keith stands up straight and tight.  If an altercation broke out, she can assure herself that Shiro would rather get beaten than raise a hand at her. “What happened, Shiro? What happened a year ago that had you stumbling, lost and wet at my doorstep.  What had you defeated and running?”  They’re face to face and Pidge has to crane her neck to look at him, over the frames on her face.

Shiro is so quiet, she almost misses his response. “I can’t remember.”

“Bull fucking shit!” She screeches.  Hunk is getting up, probably sensing the violence in the atmosphere.  Lance is already by her side, pulling her away from Keith who has apparently moved across the room to block Shiro from her.  As if Shiro need protecting, towering over him with that prosthetic, glowing deep violet in the dark of their apartment on rainy nights.  

“You’re keeping something me,” Pidge accuses, pointing her finger from her place behind Lance.  She wants to tell him to get out of her way, that she can handle him easily, his cyberbrain is not safe from her but something about Lance’s stance is genuine.  She hates how old habits never seem to rest six feet down.

“I don’t know what you want from me, Pidge.”

Shiro sounds pained, wounded and open and Pidge is almost afraid to trust him. “I want to know what happened those years ago, Shiro. What happened to my brother?” 

Keith steps in, breaking the staring contest. “He says he doesn’t know, Pidge. Allura is working--”

“Back up, Keith,” Lance hisses  and now Pidge wonders if the fight will actually break out between those two.

Keith pulls back smartly, realizing the risk did not outweigh the benefit. “I’m saying, Allura is looking into it.”

“I have a lead.”  All eyes are back on Pidge, who takes a few paces away from Lance. “I’m leaving to pursue it.”

Now Lance looks confused, face torn between defending Pidge and feeling hurt. Pidge almost feels guilty.  Shiro is the one to push forward. “Pidge, are you sure?”

She turns sharply on her heel, facing the exit as she makes her way to the door.  She wanted to quit two weeks ago, when the novelty had worn off and the privileges weren’t enough to pull anything from the net of her brother. This was a waste of precious time.  Time she’s enjoyed but a waste nonetheless.  Pidge is halfway down the corridor, reaching her room when she hears the soft footsteps, undoubtedly Shiro if living together meant anything. 

“Searching on your own,” he says to her back, all confidence again. “You’ll put yourself in danger.”

“I might,” she responds, turning another sharp corner.  Shiro follows her effortlessly.

“We can tackle this, as a team.”

Pidge turns around to face him, eyes hot with coiled rage. “No, Shiro. We can’t.  You may have sold your soul to Allura, but I still have wiggle room.”

Shiro’s eyebrows shoot up, almost making him look laughable to her. “I haven’t.”

“Oh, I think you have.” Pidge can’t stop the tumbling of her words, watches in gross satisfaction at how they spew like acid from her lips. “You sold your soul the same way you did when you were military, the same way you gave your arm to Zarkon.” The name is burning metal, hot against Shiro’s flesh as she presses it into his chest. 

“Pidge,” he responds, voice low and  _ finally _ he seems angry, swaying slightly on his feet. 

“You think I didn’t know? That all that time I spent hunting for Matt, I wouldn’t dig up where you were? That technology is so clearly out of our government’s reach and there you were, standing at my doorstep with it. Who did you kill for it?” She asks and god, she sounds cruel, almost monstrous but she can’t stop. “Was it Keith? Your brother in arms, blown to smithereens and you never went looking for him.”

“That’s not what happened,” Shiro whispers but there’s violence in his voice.  He’s tight, probably using every trained muscle in his body to resist beating Pidge down. 

“But it’s close right? I’ve seen his brain casing, you know.  I’ve seen the only organic thing about him other than his feelings for you.  You’ve done some terrible things, Shiro.”  Pidge is staring at him, almost at peace with herself the longer she speaks, releasing every tightly held emotion she’s built for years. “It’s time you stopped pretending.”

Shiro is deathly silent.  She takes it as her cue to exit, heading to her room and packing her things.  

\---

It’s Hunk who waits for her in the exit lot, standing awkwardly by the door, a small device in his hands.

“Hunk,” she greets, a small smile on her lips because of all the people she’s met in this brief moment of her life, he holds the most understanding.

“Pidge,” he replies and it’s less a greeting and more a goodbye.  Her heart hurts but she continues to move until they’re standing side-by-side.  “Good luck,” he says, not looking at her and she realizes it’s because he’s holding back tears.  A man who saved a life not too long ago, nearly took another’s and didn’t bat an eye was almost crying for her.  She reaches up, wraps her arms around him softly.  He immediately completes the hug, embraces Pidge warmly and nearly breaks her glasses.

“I know I can’t stop you,” he’s speaking into her ear and Pidge thinks there’s something so miserable in his voice, like he’s tired of people leaving.  “But promise me you’ll come back.”

“And miss this?” She laughs, and it’s nearly choked, pulling out of the hug. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

“Here,” he sniffles, handing her the device in his hands.  It’s a portable, ancient but reliable.  Pidge can’t believe he had an old model lying around.  Knowing him, Hunk probably made it from scratch, stitched from the scraps of Pidge’s old computers.

She takes it, reluctancy bleeding onto her face. “This is something I have to do.”

“I know.”

\---

The lead is simple, a trafficking trade is taking place in today at the docks, between Settle and Whaler, just on the outskirts of DJD.  Pidge has reason to believe that her brother is among the cargo, being hauled around like a pound of flesh to be cooked in the heat.  She can hear buzzards.

Pidge still feels the shock when she lets her guard down, the shock of finding out  that her brother was MIA, attended a mission with a group deep into the Gallows.  He went dark, they said to her mother, cold and never crawled out of the bottomless pits.  The same pits Shiro should have vanished in too before he showed up, nearly broken at her door.  From what Pidge has gathered, they had encountered something horrid in that dark, something with teeth that chewed them up.

Shiro says he can’t remember much, knows the name Zarkon, feels hollowed out and filled with something so very not his own.

That’s all Pidge needed really. From just the name, she scoured the net, collected gritty footage and missing people reports. It’s what brought her to the DJD in the end, the back window to the web that Allura provided her finally had her stumbling on an old tape of people being transported, a familiar marking on the cargo boxes that matched the deep violet streaks on Shiro’s hand. Pidge knew, with every bone in her body, every raw nerve ending and every tear she shed that this was it.

In about two hours, a unmarked vessel will make it’s way to the docks to pick up an unspecified shipment, a material that shuffles when it’s scared and runs cold when damaged.  She knew what she has to do, slipping on the thermo-optical suit that was waiting for her in her room.  Allura must have known, from the moment she stopped at their apartment to the moment Pidge confessed her intentions.  It stings, the implication of being read so easily, from a politician especially.

Pidge checks the gun on her hip, small and light, suggested by Lance offhandedly once during a training session.  Sometimes, she thinks even he knew, deep down, that this was unavoidable. The blades hanging from the belt on her waist, secure and sharp, filed with more hatred than any material she could muster.

The shipment is to be made in broad daylight, a little too confident in Pidge’s opinion but who knows how far this Zarkon reaches, whether it’s a man or a company, a ghost or a god. All she knows that stumbling in a crate, lies her brother, a boy who became a man too young and was burned for it.

Pidge activates the suit, hears the slight stutter of static in her ear as it blends her body into the environment, invisible to thermal sensing. Before making her exit from the roof she camped at, she looks back, picks up the small signaling device Hunk had given her and tucks it under her belt.

She’d never use it but the thought that it’s there brings her comfort.

\---

Infiltrating is a dangerous game, one Pidge plays well.  She crawls through the ventilation, the map of the docking units stored in her mind. She knows they’ll use the underground port, wouldn’t risk a call for help.  She crawls swiftly, bending her body for quick movements until she appears above two men.  They’re dressed in the same clothes Shiro wore when he first emerged, black except for the bright purple that tugs down their spines.  Pidge listens in but they aren’t talking.

“No comm is safe,” she whispers to herself.  It’s almost jokingly easy, used to beating Lance in tearing down walls.  The server is hardly secure, but the red flag is ignored in favor of hearing them speak.

_ ‘The cargo is ready to be boarded.’ _

_ ‘We’re running out of time.’ _

_ ‘It’s on the way to the ship now.’ _

The voices are all monotonous, sets Pidge’s spine rigid but she ignores it. The closest way to the underground port was the pathway below her, the air shafts cutting off to allow the opening of the docks.  She rolls her shoulders, counts to ten and kicks the ventilation bars hard.

The two guards look up but they’re too slow.  The bars, along with Pidge’s whole momentum, collides with the face of one.  Before the other can react, Pidge is already shoving the blade against the exposed skin of his neck, lightly tapping it with the taser end, shocking him silent.  He crumbles onto the floor beside his companion.  Pidge quickly checks the comm link, looking for any trace of warning that she’s been spotted.  There’s no panic, no call to arms and her face, although masked, does not appear on the channel.

Pidge breathes out, unaware she is curling into herself.  She searches their bodies rapidly, looking for any identification.  She’s surprised, there aren’t even weapons. They’re empty, just men in suits standing around, couldn’t even call them guards.  A sense of dread begins to rumble in the bottom of her gut, an increasing spike of fear that something was horribly, terribly wrong.

She pushes forward, runs down the corridor and encounters a few more groups, all the same.  Easy to take down, nothing tracing them to Zarkon other than the color schemes of their uniforms.

“No, no no no” she’s whispering, over and over, ignoring the tears welling up in her goggles.  She shoves them on to her head the moment she reaches the dock, bright from the sun and burning.  There’s a ship, already in the distance with a box she spent the last couple of days memorizing.  It glitters at her mockingly.  “No!” She thinks she’s panicking now, missed her window by how many hours? How could this happen? How should she make such a simple mistake?

She’s scrambling towards the ship, reaching the end of the concrete, where the water touches the surface of her covered toes. She’s crying when something solid and cold hits the back of her neck.

\---

Pidge remains quiet in the abandoned docking port of an unmarked building in the Dead Joint District.  It’s warm, in the middle of the summer and the walls have crumbled enough to let glitters of light peak through concrete.  The water that brushes against her head, ticking her neck is cold..  The dirt rubs into the back of her legs but she refuses to move.

She’s staring, eyes blinking back tears at the figure before her, the only man with a weapon she has seen in the whole area. There’s a halo surrounding him, the rays of light from the sun burn into her eyes. She thinks she might be blinded by it if she doesn’t blink.

She’s too scared that if she blinks, he’ll be gone.

“Wha..?” She croaks, the water rushing up in gentle waves to wash up her hair and neck, her hands still at her sides.

“Katie.” 

Pidge screams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YOOO:  
> Tumblr: @ghostering (come give me prompts and bounce ideas)  
> Twitter: @t33thing (see me be lame)


	8. Family

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Give Shiro a fucking break.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, I was busy with real life and work and I am a mess. Thanks for all the lovely reviews. Now that this chapter is out, I'm back to powering out klance for klance week. 
> 
> WARNINGS  
> Sexual Themes (featuring Sheith), Language, Violence  
> Unbeta'd

Keith was waiting for him.

Shiro walked into his room, silent with his shoulders tensed, heavy and powerful. There was something black in his veins, tickling his muscles with each movement. His lips were thin and held together.  

The door to his room opened soundlessly, recognized his features even though Shiro hardly felt like himself. He hadn’t honestly felt like himself in years, but rather just a cheap copy, haphazardly thrown together in a makeshift body to play the part of Shiro. He felt foreign in his own skin, a visitor in a place that was no longer his own.

Pidge was right. And it scorched him.

When he stepped into the darkness of his quarters, the slight glow of Keith’s eyes in the void was not surprising. It was almost familiar until Shiro reminded himself that rather than the light reflecting off whites and pupils, Keith used optic lighting.

“Shiro,” he said, his voice a tight whisper as he slowly stood up from his position on Shiro’s bed. He looked like a ghost, a haunting reminder that everything was the same and yet nothing would remain. “Are you alright?”

He knew what Keith was asking, his eyes unwavering in the night. ‘ _Are you still you?’_ and for a bitter second, Shiro wanted to bite back ‘ _Are you?’_ He didn’t though, shuffled from his left to his right foot and watched Keith gracefully approach him, the dim light from under his door gave him glimmers of fluid movement. He looked graceful, he looked like _Keith_.

“Yeah,” Shiro responded but his voice sounds not like his own and thoughts of war scrambled across his mind. He reached up to touch Keith, let the metal of his fingers trace his check, gently trailing down to his lips. Keith’s eyelids fall slightly, looking at Shiro from under thick black lashes. He let his thumb ease up to touch the tiny hairs, felt them flutter against the sensors of his prosthetic.

It felt simple, almost like a routine when he leaned down to capture soft lips, cold against his warming skin. Keith fell into him immediately, the tension in his back visibly softened as he leant into Shiro for support. His arms moved from his sides and Shiro liked the way they dipped into his short hair, scraping his scalp, digging for something.

He made a quiet sound, breathy and small and so incredibly vulnerable and Shiro remembered. He leaned down further, arm leaving Keith’s face in favor of wrapping around his waist, pulled him roughly against his chest. Keith followed, closing in with no complaints as his tongue slipped passed Shiro’s parted lips, caressing the roof of his mouth.

The inside of Shiro felt hot, burning against the cool of Keith’s lips and he felt that he would let the smaller man swallow him wholly.

Keith picked up on the lack of resistance, moving Shiro to his bed with gradual small steps. They barely parted for air, Keith’s fingers wrapped tightly around the back of his neck, pulling him down with more strength than Shiro recognized. Keith kept with the quiet sounds, a low whine that had Shiro chasing his mouth, rubbing his tongue along teeth. His hands moved lower, grip tightening on the softness of his ass.

Keith grunted, apparently fed up with simply kissing and harshly shoved Shiro against the cotton of his bed. Shiro let himself fall, taking Keith with him by the pull of his hands, setting him to lay flush against him. He bucked into Keith’s knee, bent his neck to allow Keith’s teeth to sink into his flesh. A thought flooded his senses, Keith working on reddening his skin. He listened, near silent for the hums of machinery. It was barely there, just under the flesh on Shiro’s fingertips, the blaring reminder that Keith is not _Keith._ The Keith he did abandon in a way, as Pidge had shouted at him.

It was a grand revelation, almost as a religious calling, the mutterings of God that Keith was practically dead.  That all those years ago, before Zarkon and after Matt, that Keith was nothing but a pile of flesh in the rubble, barely held together and so so still, Shiro never saw anything so still. It was difficult to imagine, with the growing hardness rubbing against his thigh, warm contrast against the cold pale of Keith, bone colored, glowing in the dark.

Shiro was panting, jutting his hips up for any friction he could find, grinding Keith down against him, who moaned unabashedly into his ear before sucking the lobe into his mouth, hot and wet.

Shiro wondered if Keith even truly feels sexual arousal anymore, if even that was dead. The thought struck him cruelly as Keith sat up, hands hold against his thighs, pulling them apart, allowing him to angle their crotches properly. Keith fucked him through the fabric, unforgiving and fast.

Shiro kept his hands on his ass, molded the flesh under his fingers before dipping below the waistband, pulling the cheeks apart. Keith grunted and Shiro realized he has been quiet this whole time, the room filtering only the sounds of the fully enhanced male.

“Keith,” he whispered, feeling the rigid markings of old flesh, hard under his thumb and index.  He could tell every story behind the scars but what made him stop, pull away from Keith who growled in response, was the lack of something new, something _different_.  

Shiro can’t move on but Keith is fucking frozen in time.

“Shiro..?”

He ignored the question, rushing to get up and in the process, pushed Keith further away from him.

“Don’t you fucking walk away,” was the call to his back, the only warning before Keith grabbed his wrist. It’s then that Shiro felt it, the grasp harsh and biting and at any moment, cold against his warming pulse, Keith could crush his bone. Keith knows it, he knows it. Shiro’s stomach dropped.

“I can’t.”

\---

The moment lingers on Shiro’s mind as he sits in the dark of the training room, ignoring Hunk’s presence at the door. The man seems to wait until Shiro is ready to talk, back to him as he sweats from exertion.

“What is it, Hunk?” He asks and his voice isn’t as steady as he wants it to be.  

Hunk waits for a moment before shuffling closer to him, slowly as if not to startle him, as if Shiro is as delicate as blown glass. He feels crystallized and raw, shallow and old. He thinks he should have died back then, before the Gallows, back when--

“Pidge might be in danger.”

“Of course,” Shiro wants to laugh out, because Pidge knew the stakes. He gets up, certainty building up because his problems on not Hunk’s problems. “We better go. Gather everyone.”

Hunk shoots him a lazy smile, stuffing his hands into his pocket. Shiro notes that his hair is loose on his shoulders rather than his usual ponytail. He wants to say it looks nice, he feels awkward.

“Everyone is already there.”

\---

Hunk picks up Pidge’s distress signal at a loading dock by the harbor, deep into the Dead Joint District.  The drive is made in relative silence, only Lance’s fidgeting providing sounds against the rolling of the streets. Shiro watches him from his sea across, strapped into the van and checking his rifles. Sometimes, in these brief lightings that seep through overpasses, Shiro is caught off guard by how young he looks. He’s thin, lean muscle but not the heavy force that he is. Long fingers dance on the trigger before swiftly moving up the barrel for inspection and Shiro notes the light dust of freckles on his nose.

He watches Lance and ignores Keith who watches him watching Lance.

“She’s not answering any comm,” Hunk mutters after a while, causing Lance’s eyes to snap up, blue and wide. Shiro looks away.

“That’s not like Pidge.” Worry is blatant on his face.

“We’re almost there.”

“Remember,” he calls and all eyes monitor his movements, a force barely hidden by artificially calm expressions. “Never let the comm link die, always update and stick to the formation. Pidge has gone dark for three hours now.” The term is heavy on his tongue, thick as molasses.  Keith leans back, unbuckling the belt strap. Lance copies him, albeit less graceful and with a shakiness that only comes from blood moving in the veins. “Everyone remember the plan? Meet up at the point. Don’t make us wait without warning.”

“Roger,” Hunk responds as Keith opens the double hatched door, the sound of gravel loud around them.

“I’m going first.” He jumps.

“Fucking show off,” Lance mutters, getting up himself and letting the mechanics in his legs steady him. He runs out of the van next. Shiro follows not long behind, Hunk sitting in wait to be last.

\---

It’s a steady rhythm. The corridors are quiet, dripping water keeping the pace as Shiro moves quickly down the tunnel system.  

 _‘No sign at West dock’_ Hunk’s voice rings in his head, calm but clipped. No one acknowledges it but everyone has heard. Shiro makes a sharp left, stopping at the bodies on the ground. _‘Unconscious, probably hired civilians located on North tunnel. Unarmed.’_ The last part is added after he moves their body around, checking swiftly for any signs of distress. They’re knocked clean out, steady breathing.  He looks up, spots the swinging open ventilation and lets the smile loosen on his lips.

 _‘Signs of possible Pidge.’_ He hears Lance sigh. _‘North tunnel, heading toward open dock.’_

Shiro dashes through the tunnel system, light on his feet. He feels his heart pumping, lungs filling with air and he thinks he’s happy for the first time since Odyssey Palace. The rifle is relaxed in his hands and when he reaches the main exit, he quickly hides behind a pillar.

He spots Pidge, back on the ground as the gentle waves wash up to their head, spreading loose strands around her face like a halo. She’s silent, her eyes closed and Shiro feels a spike of fear that _oh no we’re too late._ A body moves in front of her, cover in the glossy black of thermo-optic camouflage, the only feature Shiro can see is the dark mop of hair, messy and untamed on their head.  

The figure leans down to Pidge with a fondness Shiro fears he recognizes, has seen that same fondness play in his dreams over and over again for four years. A black clad hand reaches up to caress Pidge’s face, careful to put their goggles back on their face. It’s intimate, almost loving before the hand snaps down on her mouth and forces her under the shallow level of water.  

Pidge awakes.

“Freeze!” Shiro shouts, emerging from his place behind the concrete pillow, off color to the world. Pidge’s body is convulting underwater, clawing at the figure harshly. The man lets go, allow Pidge to resurface, coughing and vomiting up clear liquid.

Shiro nearly drops the gun.

“Shirogane!” Matt calls, a goofy grin on his face, as if he hasn’t been dead for four years, as if he hadn’t nearly killed his sister, who lays at his feet coughing and crying.

“Matt,” Shiro whispers. His body feels cold, as if he was the one underwater, washed out and bleached in the sun. Matt looks happy to see him, the only oddness is in the distant look in his eyes.

“I didn’t know you and Katie were so close.” His laugh sounds the fucking same, down to the small hiccup he ends with, punctuating it. “Though, her gear is surprisingly advanced for an independent vigilant.  I get it, you’re government workers now.” He smacks his fist into his open palm, like he’s figured out a master plan, a plan Shiro is so lost in as he stares helplessly at the man. Matt is staring at him, Shiro nearly vomits when he whistles. “Nice arm.”

He lunges.

“Matt!” Pidge is screaming, hacking up a lung and Shiro barely dodges the blade that grazes his cheek. He drops the gun to block, an amateur move.  He can’t pick it up in time when he feels a coiled fist collide with his abdominal. The pain fires up, feels inhumanly strong and has him choking on bile that rushes up his throat in a wave. He drops to his knees.

“You’re shaking,” Matt whispers when he crouches down beside Shiro. “Come on, big guy.  Turn the tables like you always do.”

Shiro can’t move, can’t even breathe even though Pidge went from calling out Matt’s name to his. He stares at Matt’s face, eyes wide and lips trembling. His head burns, there’s salt in the wound, the flesh is rotting. Matt’s eyes look so _off_.

Matt tsks, almost looks angry with the growing frown. “Pity,” he mumbles before getting up. Shiro isn’t ready for the foot to smash into his face, his nose making an unappetizing crunch.

“Stop it!” Pidge is begging but voices are muffled. Shiro feels like he’s back in the van, moving under the overpass. He’s watching Hunk, eyes trained on the GPS to Pidge, watching Lance with light brushes of freckles that move like an asteroid belt on his nose, watching Keith watch him coldly. He’s staring at the blood in his hands, after reaching up and clutching his nose.

“Get up, Shiro!” He knows he’s being shouted at, but he can’t understand what they’re saying. He’s sweating, heart rate skyrocketing under the padding on his chest. He’s choking on nothing. Matt has picked up his fallen gun.

He aims the weapon at Shiro’s head and he can barely see it, sees two Matts looking at him with a frown, four Pidge’s screaming at him to move, crawling from the water with barely any support in their arms, goggles askew on their face.

A gun fires.  Matt curses, clutching his head.

Shiro is the one to rise to the surface this time.

Pidge is looking to her left, a relieved emotion washing over her face that nearly calms Shiro, helps him ignore the sharp cooper in his mouth. “Lance!”

Matt is bring his hand close to his body, though he doesn’t seem to be in pain. _Prosthetics_ , Shiro thinks before he hears Keith charging. Matt easily dodges him, hauling him across the dock but he’s not quick enough for Hunk, who moved right after Keith, tackling him down. The bigger man gets him pinned before he’s shouting, a small knife appearing lodged in his abdomen. Keith is returning, left arm looking bent wrong but it doesn’t stop him from trying to get Matt off of Hunk.

Lance shoots again, bullet smashing through the assailant's left leg. White fluid flies with metal shards and it looks like shrapnel. Pidge is up now, moving to attack when Matt has both Hunk and Keith down. Hunk is cradling his abdomen and twisting frantically left and right on the ground. Sound begins to return to Shiro is waves, static that shakes his eardrums. “Fuck, come on,” is the call from Keith and suddenly, he catches up to the world around them.

He rushes up, like a wave there’s nothing there. No one is standing over Keith or Hunk, no one is being held at the point of a blade by Pidge. Lance is aiming at no one.

“What the fuck,” Lance gasps out, opening his eyes from the narrow scope of the rifle.

“Thermo-optics!” Pidge screams, frantically looking around. It clicks with Shiro immediately. He shuffles around frantically, scanning for any sign of an exit. He picks up on nothing.

“Hunk needs a doctor.” Lance is running down to their position, sweat gathering on his brow. He looks panicked, his dark skin pale against the setting redness of the sun. Pidge is already activating her comm to contact Allura, calling for medical assistance as she helps Keith up. Lance is pressing firmly against Hunk’s wound, whispering something to him silently, voice a lullaby to calm the man. Shiro realizes it’s not for Hunk, who appears the calmest in the group, relaxed in letting Lance stop the bleeding, rather it was for himself, whose fingers shock against the wound.

“Who the fuck was that?” Keith shouts, staring at Pidge before turning his gaze to Shiro. He flinches. “He knew you! How could he take us out? He was one fucking man.”

Shiro’s mouth opens but nothing comes out. His lips feel dry.

The sound of a medical helicopter nearly cuts Pidge’s voice.

“That was my brother.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> talk to me i am dying there is no time (uuugh)  
> tumblr @ghostering  
> twitter @t33thing


	9. Forced Vision

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lance develops an understanding of his place in life, at the hands of another.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a while, sorry for the delay but I've been thinking about my life. Also there is this growing popularity with Sniper!Lance that has me living, so thank you god. On another exciting manner, [Sam's art of a great scene from chapter 4!](http://ghostering.tumblr.com/post/148655640473/istehlurvz-ghostering-gave-me-free-reign-on) Lance can strangle me any day.
> 
> Please listen to this wonderful playlist made by jesspava [HERE!](http://8tracks.com/jesspava/dead-end-nation)  
> WARNINGS:  
> Language, Unbeta'd  
> (Man, when will I get to the sex??)

Lance sits at the end of the waiting room, watching the red blinking lights that blare  _ 2:15 _ . He’s fine mainly, except for the occasional wet gasp that interrupts his otherwise steady breathing. In the beginning, Pidge waited with him, watching him closely.  The didn’t speak, didn’t mention how silent they’ve been since Hunk was lifted by the helicopter.

Lance doesn’t even know what he’d say.

Shiro came by next, sat with him for an hour and tried to apologize, which Lance couldn’t stomach. It ended with Shiro leaving and Lance nearly heaving himself onto the floor to vomit.

Keith never stops by.  _ 2:30. _

He’s been waiting for four hours, sitting dangerously at the edge of the plastic sit, mindlessly wiggling his toes against the cool tiled floor. He watches each mechanical bend, stares at the shifting of artificial veins, strong wiring that gives him the semblance of a reflex. For the first time since he’s been given to chance to walk again, he feels helpless.

The double doors open and Lance immediately jumps to his seat, eyes frantic as he stares at the doctor, dressed crisp and cold in white. The man looks at him, optics firmly in place instead of eyes and Lance can feel himself be scrutinized, his face leaves nothing for Lance to devour. 

The doctor’s optics narrow, like a lens focus and Lance waits patiently, fingers itching on a trigger than isn’t there. “Hunk Garett handled the surgery well and will be able to return to action in three days.”

“Three days?” Lance shouts, nearly kicking the chair behind him before stomping out to the man. “That’s all?”

The doctor doesn’t flinch, doesn’t even take in a breath of air. Lance thinks of Keith, all robotics and no human and he’s almost terrified. “Mr. Garett will be fit for physical duty in three days time.” 

Lance grinds his teeth together. “Yeah I get that, but--”

“I have other patients, Mr. Sanchez.” 

Lance can’t argue, watches the man retreat back through the double doors. He knows down to the fundamentals that he and Hunk are no longer free men, that their bodies belong to the government, that Allura ultimately decides where they will die. 

His legs move on their own, carry him out of the waiting room into a long stretch of corridors, down the stairs and in the rain at the front of the hospital.  The water is cold on his skin, chilling him to the bone but he can’t feel it in his bare legs and he can’t feel  _ Hunk  _ who’s laying on some operation table like a rat. Lance can’t imagine what it must have been like for him, to watch Lance fester on a bed for two years.

He can’t feel his fucking feet.

Lance walks back to their residential quarters. Slowly, each step analyzing the way his legs move, solid against the rain but almost separated from himself, as if they never truly belonged to him. The elevator is waiting for him when he reaches the lobby of their building. He’s still barefoot, enjoys the quiet echoes of his feet against marble.

When he reaches their floor, he doesn’t bother to greet anyone. Lance makes straight for Allura’s office, walks up to her desk despite Keith speaking to her.He doesn’t stop him and Lance slams his hands against the wood of her desk. Allura doesn’t look up from her paperwork, though she does cut off her sentence to Keith.

“Why only three days?” Lance asks, fingers curling to claw at the wood, nearly wishing his hands were prosthetic too, just to damage the surface of the block.

“Lance, the best doctors are handling Hunk’s treatment--”

“Military doctors,” Lance hisses, narrowing his eyes. “You know they have one goal in mind.”

“Yes,” Allura’s voice is calm like the waves by the edges of the Dead Joint District, smooth against his ears but with the constant reminder of a blade’s edge beneath the surface. “And they happen to match my own.”

The admittance of it sets Lance into a silence, stills his body like the dead. “You’re already planning another mission.”

“I can’t wait around forever, Sanchez.” The use of his last name throughs Lance off. “Do you think the government is funding Hunk’s recovery. No, they are funding his work in the line of action, just as they are funding you. Do not be too quick to forget.”

Her eyes are steady, Lance feels himself nothing but a stepping stone, a mere peddle on the righteous path Allura has chosen to take. They’re expendable, not immediately so but not unmanageable. It’s a sobering thought, solid in his hands, lifelike and delicate. Allura looks upon Lance like he’s a fussy child. “Hunk is well aware of the circumstances,” she adds as she looks back down to her papers. Her attention leaves Lance instantly, as if stating outright that this discussion was over. “We are going to need to do a background examination on the prosthetics that Pidge’s brother was using. I already asked her to give a formal report in our next meeting tomorrow.”

“Of course,” Keith responds, short and quick like a knife. It’s cold, just as Allura, just as trained as Lance expected but he knows better. He saw how Keith gathered himself to the crumbled Shiro, how he screamed at Pidge, unable to understand how they were all taken out. Lance understands that his argument is over, straightening his back and letting his arms fall off the desk. 

“You should dry off,” he hears Keith’s voice, tiny and tight, almost afraid of express anything. Lance wants to laugh in his face, Lance wants to punch him hard enough to rattle his brain. “You’ll get sick.”

He’s dripping all over Allura’s carpet like a dog.

“Bark,” whispers back. Keith looks confused, raising an eyebrow but he doesn’t bother to explain.  Lance turns on his heels, unsteadily walking to the door he entered in with such fire in his blood not too long ago. He feels more defeated than when he was actually fighting.

He passes by Hunk’s room on the way to the training ground. It’s eerily quiet, no rustling of machinery, no subtle sounds of snacking. Lance tries to open the door but the security denies him. Instead, he turns to rest his back against it, his artificial limbs supporting his dead weight. 

Lance doesn’t realize he’s slid to the ground until appear of feet interrupt his vision. He follows the legs up to look at Pidge starring down at him, their frames loose on their nose, practically about to fall. Their hair is swept and lazy, soft looking but distraught. He wants to touch it, he wants to stop looking like he’s about to cry.

“You look like you’re about to cry.”

“Don’t call me out,” he manages to mumble, listening to Pidge move beside him and joining him on the ground. Their thighs are warm as they scooch tight against him, comforting in a way he can’t describe. He looks at his legs, blue against the light of the hallway, shining horrifyingly sharp. Pidge’s thighs are smaller, firm under their pants.

“I’m--”

“Don’t apologize,” Lance hisses, biting his lips. “I can’t bare another apology.”

Pidge nods, he feels it in their skin, the shift in breath. “I didn’t expect him--Matt. I didn’t expect Matt.”

Lance knows, saw the shock on their face as the waves crept on their skin, motionless on the ground of the dock. “Thanks,” they whisper, small as they curl beside Lance. “For coming for me.” 

The words ring nostalgia in him, seeing the back of Hunk, shoulders square and a pilot jacket tucked surely in his arms. Something thick clutches at Lance’s throat.

“I know you’d do the same.”

Pidge looks up at him, face covered in an emotion Lance cannot understand. In fact, he can admit that he never truly understood what Pidge was feeling, from their days in high school to the look on their face when the medical helicopter landed. Pidge was an enigma, following their own agenda. 

“Of course.”

They sit in silence until Pidge gets up and soundlessly walks down the corridor. Lance doesn’t watch her go, opting to slowly doze off on the floor, the blinking of doorway lights setting him off to sleep. He’s awakened as soon as he begins to dream by something warm rubbing against his head.  

It’s a towel, held in Pidge’s small hands as they dry him off, starting from his hair and moving down to his face. Small circular motions, as if knowing that if they pressed to hard, Lance would break into a million pieces. 

Pidge keeps drying him even when Lance is crying new wet spots on his face.

\---

“Hey buddy,” Hunk greets as Lance enters the recovery room. He has his own section, courtesy of Allura of course, but Lance still bites back any appreciation. “They said I’ll be good in two more days.”

“I heard,” Lance grins and he knows it doesn’t reach his eyes. Hunk spots it immediately, sweet loving Hunk but he doesn’t bring it up, rather he pats the spot on his bed not occupied by his legs.

“What are you waiting for man, hop in!”

Lance laughs, puts down the chocolates by the bedside, sickeningly sweet and filled with rum, the ones Hunk likes the most before childishly jumping on the white sheets. Hunk fakes that he’s in pain, clutching his side and releasing a large breath.

“Wow,” he says after Lance is settled beside him, knee nudging him playfully under the sheets. Lance shoves his knee back. “How the tables have turned.”

“Very true. You’re bound to the bed now.”

“Fuck, it’s surreal. I can’t imagine how you handled being here for two years.”

Lance bites the inside of his cheek, hops the dark circles are clear under his eyes, hopes his breathing sounds regulated. “I didn’t, remember?”

Hunk tenses under the hospital sheets. He looks silly in the designated gown, covered in small flowers that the hospital parades like its mascot. Lance thinks they look awfully like lilies but what does he know about plants.

“I won’t apologize.” 

Lance is thankful, looks at Hunk’s set face. “I know you won’t.”

“I signed up for this.”

“I know.”

“We signed up for this.”

He’s moving to lay beside Hunk, shoulder to shoulder with the lull of the heart monitor guiding his breathing. 

“I know.”

“Great, now give me one of those damn chocolates you devil. You know how weak they make me.”

Lance laughs, matching the up and down movement of Hunk’s chest. 

“I know.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So fight me on the internet @t33thing on twitter and @ghostering on tumblr with headcanons and cybercops AU.


	10. Ghost(s)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Allura is leading the agenda, Pidge is bluntly reminded of this fact.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOW THE POSITIVE FEEDBACK HAS BEEN AMAZING! Thank you for everyone who commented, that was what literally pushed this chapter out immediately. Thanks for all the long comments, you don't know how I scream when I get a notification. Anyway here is the next chapter! An update probably won't happen again until the weekend because ((work)). 
> 
> Thanks for sticking around and being so amazing to my shitty ass, pulling me outta my sickness the last couple of days.
> 
> WARNING:  
> Mild Language, Unbeta'd (riddled with mistakes probs), and SOME PLOT.

Pidge is silent when Lance shuffles past her, eyes glazed with determination as he embarks for Allura’s door. She doesn’t stop him, can’t even find the words to say as he opens the wood harshly and storms in. He must of heard news about Hunk and seeing how he wasn’t running in, screaming, that Hunk had survived the operation.

She gathers her things, the small hologram of notes, the delicate touch pad and pushes her glasses high up against her nose, enough to press cooly against her lashes. Pidge stiffens her body, steadies her breathing and listens right at the edge of the door.

“Do you think the government is funding Hunk’s recovery. No, they are funding his work in the line of action, just as they are funding you. Do not be too quick to forget.” 

Lance is mumbling when he exits the room, swift on his feet but a shifty gait. Pidge again, feels something deep in her throat, attempting to claw out and just tell Lance  _ something _ , but he’s gone in the time it takes her to breathe. 

“That’ll be all, Keith,” Allura sighs, leaning back in her seat. She looks older to Pidge then when they first met, lines harder at the edge of her eyes. Her scars peek out of her collar on dark skin, old and fine and maybe brittle. Keith gives her a short nod before excusing himself, barely sparing a glance in Pidge’s direction. They haven’t spoken since they’ve returned.

“Pidge,” Allura signals for her to seat by her desk. Something about sitting makes it less formal, but keeps the air of discipline. She feels like she’s at the principal's office. 

“Don’t you think you were being too harsh?” The question cuts Allura, Pidge sees it in the way her eyes widen before shifting to examine a droplet on the desk, shaking as her fingers come up to wipe it off the deep wood.

“Lance is a good politician, and a great soldier. But he seems to forget the gravity of the situation, Pidge. We are responsible for the safety of the public.” 

Pidge understands, sees Allura’s fingers curl against the glass of water on her desk, small and half-filled. “The sooner he’s reminded of this fact,” she takes a sip, the muscles in her throat working almost as hard as the rest of her. “The better he’ll move on.” She finishes the glass and uses her pinkie to rest it near silently back on the wooden frame, ignoring the coaster not too far from her.

“Allura, I just want to take this chance to apologize. I endangered the--”

“You only endangered yourself, Pidge. I’m sure I don’t have to assure you that the unit acted on their own accord, without proper permission.”

“But you knew, didn’t you?” Allura gives her a small smile. For a moment, Pidge sees a young girl, before the battle with glitter in her eyes and skin untainted. It’s replaced when Allura meets her eyes with something hard, jagged and impenetrable. 

“That may or may not be the case. Let’s not dwell on past conduct and focus on our current investigation.”

“ _ Our? _ ” 

Allura signals for Coran, quietly standing at the door looking as concerned as he always does, twitching from one foot to the next. He nods frantically before closing the door, quickly snapping a few commands on the control console. The background noise stops, there’s a piercing silence behind Pidge. She can’t hear the shuffling of Keith training, the frantic pacing of Shiro down the halls, nothing. It scares her briefly, reminds her of the faint empty that lingered in the alleys of the Dead Joint District, the only sound was the turn of waves and movement of small terrified feet.

“Soundproofing the room? Who’s Lance going to tell?”

“I’m trying to keep this off the book, you see.” Allura’s fingers move with trained practice against the screen board hidden under her desk. Pidge notices her fingers are painted a feminine pink,warm and almost unsettlingly off to her demeanor. She can almost admit that she admires Allura. “Your brother was using prosthetics far more advanced than we are currently pumping out.”

“You mean in our military units.”

“Correct. I don’t need to play dumb, you are well aware of the modifications the military does to soldiers.”

“I’ve seen Keith, I’m well aware.”

Allura takes the biting comment in stride, carefully pulling up clips of current enhancement practices, full body transformations, promising strength and agility. “Our unit is special. Keith is fully enhanced through overseas third parties and is upkept by Hunk here in our lab, as well as Lance’s legs. Shiro is a different case.”

A picture of Shiro, side by a close detailed shot of his arm, black and eerie as Pidge remembers it, flickers before her. There are texts of analysis but Pidge comes to the same conclusion before finishing the document.  _ It’s unimaginably different, almost impossible to understand, almost inhumanly made. _

“A big tip off to Shiro’s prosthetic being a new form of technology is his reaction time. I’m sure you’ve noticed,” Allura states, raising an eyebrow and Pidge feels the pressure of a school teacher.

“Of course. He’s reaction time is amazing. Lance and Keith may be good but it’s humanly impossible not to have a timed reaction due to neuron signaling from the organic brain to create those synapses.”

“That’s correct. The impulse travels from the active dendrites in the brain, traveling to makeshift neurons who send the reaction down a signaling pathway to elicit a direct response. Hence, why Lance also needed his spine replaced to function his prosthetics at military expected capacity.” Allura zooms into Shiro during combat training, quick against Hunk’s steady fire and using his arms to block direct shots. Pidge has never seen Shiro in the heat of battle up close. “Shiro has next to no reaction delay, even less if one’s body was completely unenhanced.” 

“How could that be?” Pidge has wormed her way up to the edge of her seat, the digging of word into her clothed thigh barely pulling her attention.

Allura’s eyes light up. “He apparently worked for Zarkon.”

“I’ve heard that name…” Pidge mutters, looking at her hands to drudge up the memory. “On the deep web. Isn’t that an arms dealer?”

“Excellent!” Allura looks absolutely delighted, a faint pink appearing in her face as she coughs to calm herself. A picture of the crisp violet logo of The Galra appear on the screen. Pidge realizes it’s the same logo she saw on the cargo boxes down by the dock. “The Galra is a crime syndicate that has been appearing more and more in our nation.” The symbol looks likes a flower almost, twisting around a banner that reads  _ CONQUERS OF A DEAD END _ . 

“What’s their connection?” Pidge asks, knowing full well Allura was on a roll.

“I have reason to believe that Zarkon, an unknown figurehead the military and other third parties often trade with are equally involved, if not directly leading the Galra.”

“You have a bases to this argument?” Pidge raises an eyebrow, because this theory, although impressive, held no tracks in the deep web. She would have spotted a correlation herself if there was a trail that Allura picked up on.

The woman in question smiles, larger than life and leans back into her cushioned seat. She reaches one perfect fingernail to graze on a single key, pulling up one final image on top of all the rest. Pidge holds back her gasp.

Matt stands before her, as intimidating as she remembered him when he towered over her, when he held her tender like a brother to drown her.

“Matt, your brother. The one we can safely assume was spearheading the operation at the DJD docks last night is operating on the same technological wizardry that Shiro’s arm is.”

The pieces artfully fall into place, his quick reaction time, the fluidity of his movements, the strength in his joints. It was enough to take down Hunk and catch Keith surprised and off guard. Her brother’s eyes glare a threatening purple at her, one she’ll always see when she closes her eyes.

Pidge takes a breath. “But, if he had no reflex time that would imply that not only is his whole body enhanced, but--” She feels a dark sickness, crawling up her spine to her tickle her neck. “But his brain. And unless he’s an AI, there has been no advancement in enhancing the brain.”

The pictures flicker one after another off the screen, like ripping away Pidge’s own memories, leaving them in a dark room, the only illumination was the cool blue of Allura’s keyboard, casting sinister shadows on her face. “That’s what we’ll be investigating.”

***

Pidge stumbles into the hallway, sure that she might lose her footing at any moment. It takes her a while for her eyes to adjust to the brightly lit corridors but it doesn’t slow her unsteady pace, pushing herself down the hallway. She nearly trips over Lance, silently mumbling at the foot of Hunk’s door. He looks pathetic to her, but she knows she’s in no better shape.

“You look like you’re about to cry.”

He doesn’t take too kindly to the comment but they’re side by side each other in a moment and Pidge feels a depth in her she can only describe as love when Lance reaches out to tell her softly, “I know you’d do the same.”

“Of course.” God, she would. She would always come back for any of them, even Shiro with his half-truths and holy complex, even Keith who silently watches but she catches the yearning in his eyes, artificial or not.

She gets up not soon after, makes her way down to the training room to gather her computer when she spots Keith, waiting at the end of the hall, something white in his hands. His eyes meet Pidge immediately and beckons her to him. 

“Can you give this to Lance?”

The shock must be evident in her face, because Keith begins to look unsure of himself, clutching the soft fabric in his hands before reaching out to push it at her. 

“He was in the rain. The dumbass probably forgot that the majority of him is still organic.” Keith looks like he’s been caught, and in some way he has. Pidge just caught him  _ caring _ .

“I understand,” she says but the smile in her voice gives her away. Keith looks annoyed, almost unsure of his space before quickly pushing her aside to beat it down to Shiro’s room. Pidge watches him leave and doesn’t bother to stop the laugh that savagely rips at her throat. 

“Keith!” she calls out at his retreating form, loud enough for him to stop but not enough to echo down the walls. “You know, it would be better if you gave it to him.”

“He doesn’t want it from me.” The sureness in his voice nearly sets Pidge off again, grumbled and awkwardly not-blinking at her. 

“You know, he doesn’t actually hate you.”

She turns down back to Lance in the opposite direction, letting Keith settle on the thought before hearing a quiet, “Funny that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lets talk TDEN or other aus at @ghostering (tumblr) or @t33thing (twitter).  
> thanks for being grand


	11. Family Politics

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hunk has a thing for gossip and sticking it to the man.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> god I am sorry for all this plot, things will pick up soon.  
> No warnings apply this time!  
> But also this is unbeta'd, i'm about to be in a car forever and figured, here just take it.

The meeting is a serious one.

Hunk can feel it from the moment he walks in, loose fitting clothing as to avoid contact with the healing patch on his ribs. He knows he looks unwell. He’s lost weight, despite the constant stream of chocolate from Lance and there’s a paleness to his usually glowing brown skin. The bags under his eyes are heavy and caused by the inability to sit still in the hospital bed. Everyone is looking at him when he enters, silence akin to a group of kids waiting for punishment. Shiro looks the guiltiest, afraid to meet his eyes and pointedly staring at the ground Hunk stands on.

“Sorry I’m late,” he jokes, trying to break the mood. Allura raises an eyebrow at him from her leaning position at the front of her desk. She looks as stunning as usual, her long lavender hair framing her face, falling in waves against her chest. 

“Took you long enough,” Pidge mocks back and suddenly, the mood shifts. Lance leans back on the couch, legs stretching far with a smile on his face. Keith sighs from his position at the door, gently bumping Hunk on his way in. Hunk shuffles to his spot, purposely squashing Lance against the fabric covered arm, enjoying the way he seems to hesitate elbowing back in retaliation. He feels a warm hand rest on his shoulder, squeezing him lightly and finds that it connects to their leader, face calm. 

“I’m glad to have you back,” Shiro says warmly, nearly looking scared but Hunk smiles at him, reaching up to pat the hand.

“I’m glad to be back.”

“Don’t make this sappy,” Lance calls from his end of the couch, groaning when Hunk pushes harder against him.

“Make this sappy? Who was hanging around Hunk’s hospital bed like a kicked dog for two days?”

“Fuck off, Keith,” Lance hisses, flipping him the bird with the minimal movement Hunk allows him. The whole interaction touches something soft inside himself, makes his chest feel like it’s blooming. He feels beautiful, which is a weird way to describe something not physical but it’s all he has. 

Allura claps her hands, getting everyone’s attention swiftly. They’re more uniformed, Hunk notes, less like a bunch of teenagers shoved together to fight a war and more like the crime fighting unit Hunk hoped they were. He can imagine Lance screaming during the training session,  _ “Look how badass we are, dude!” _

“I will make this brief. We believe there is a connection between Zarkon and The Galra organization operating in many of the underground crime cases.” She looks directly at Shiro, who nods in agreement, his face set hard and determined. “If that’s true, Zarkon will need to be monitored heavily, something that will be difficult considering connection to upper branches of government. He’s well protected.”

“Why don’t we have Pidge looking into him?” Keith asks, gesturing to Pidge fidgeting their glasses, a newer brand Hunk had noticed that resembled less of their brother’s. 

“I tried, unfortunately. He barely appears on the deep web. No one barely appears on the deep web.”

Keith narrows his eyes, frowning at the information but not bothering to say anymore. “Zarkon is pulling his connections and he’s tugged on my line.”

“Your line?” Hunk is confused and apparently, he’s not the only one. Lance is straightening up beside him. Judging from his face, he’s familiar with the lingo, that it must be something political, a term used for the wealthy.

“How does he have a line on you?” 

Allura looks at Lance, something raw in her eyes. It makes her look younger, mournful, a look that sometimes crosses Shiro’s face when he catches Keith watching him. Hunk blinks and it’s gone. “He was close with my father.”

The way she said it sounded diluted in the air, watered down old feelings that trickled like oil. It separates the air, but only on the surface. Lance is quiet for a moment, an unusual look on his face. “What’s the line?”

“The social party in congratulations for the beginning development project at the outskirts of the Protea district.” 

“You mean the relocation of refugees?” Hunk asks, voice lowered to a near murmur in the room. Lance looks down at his hands. 

“Such is the way of the world.” Allura is sharp as a knife, a moment of weakness earlier does not make her more open to them. If anything, sometimes Hunk thinks the distance is growing deeper, rather than longer. “Zarkon is a major sponsor for the project and will be meeting officials at the event.”

“He asked you for protection, didn’t he?” Keith completes, eyes impossibly wide in comparison to his deadpanned stare. Shiro’s hand, which has taken residence on the ledge behind Hunk, tightens harshly against the wood. He can hear it groan in protest.

Allura doesn’t even bother to answer Keith, turning on the hologram slide to show a picture of Zarkon, an older man with greying hair, smiling calmly in a suit to the camera. He sends chills down Hunk’s spine, the way wrinkled fingers seem to curl around a cane, the slight tilt of his hat, the clear shine of his shoes.  _ This is an arms dealer,  _ Hunk thinks.  _ He looks like a senator. _

“He will be accompanied by his own security. We will be there, undercover in case anything goes wrong.”

“So, we’re playing babysitter again?” Pidge looks relaxed despite the complaint, leaning back to pick dirt from under their fingernails.

“Unfortunately, due to Shiro’s history with Zarkon as well as the need to be as discreet as possible, only two of you will attend the event, as formal guests with Pidge on comm stand by to handle the surveillance footage and background checks.” Allura moves to stand upright, brushing loose hair behind her ear. “I will not be attending, I wasn’t on the list of proud sponsors, sadly.” She doesn’t sound disappointed at all. She waits, looking past Hunk at Lance and the man immediately understands, face falling into something that twists at Hunk’s heart violently.

“I’m guessing the Sanchez family is.” Lance looks disappointed, an angry bend to his brow and the grind of his teeth. Hunk wants to reach for him, remind him the reason he got those legs, that his family is only that, his family.

“Correct,” Allura clicks away at the graphics, displaying the layout of the Troy Pavilion, a wonderful skyscraper lovingly named after the heart of the city. Even to Hunk, it looks like a prime spot for the shaking of hands. “You will be attending the event in two days time, with Keith acting as your backup. Both of you will have to blend in. Lance,” she calls, drawing his eyes from the ground to look at her. His face is determined, etched with an awareness. “I’m sure you’ve practiced. Promote your family agenda as what’s expected of you.”

“Sure thing, princess,” he smiles out, but Hunk thinks it doesn’t mean anything, that there’s a sorrow inside Lance that he can neither explain nor deny. Allura sees it and almost reflects her own.

“Wonderful. Shiro, you’ll be attending a meeting with the Chief Secretary of Defense and the Prime Minister. You will all be briefed in real time of the outcome.”

***

Hunk stares at Shiro’s arm, resting on his table as does a sensory test, prinking each metallic black finger with the end to the medi pen. Shiro twitches after each touch, fingers bending so quickly that sometimes Hunk thinks they react before the needle breaks against the surface. The monitor hooked up to Shiro’s head and chest expresses a steady stream of electric impulse signals. 

“It really is amazing, how this technology works.” 

Shiro gives him a lazy smile, fingers not held down reach up to scratch idly at the healed scar on his nose. “Is it?” Hunk nods.

“There’s no hesitation, no delayed reaction or jamming. No resistance to nerve impulses and easily attuned to your own habits. It’s the perfect--”

“Weapon?”

Hunk looks guilty, gives Shiro a shy smile with some rose coloring his cheeks. “I was going to say prosthetic but I guess it can mean the same thing.” He returns his eyes back to the hand strapped to the table, watching how the tendons flex under the opaque black. It’s near mythical, to be this close to perfection and still unable to break it down to the hard components. He’s even considered asking Shiro to just surgically remove it, get a normal fucking arm and let Hunk have at it.

There is no dialogue between them for a peaceful couple of seconds. Shiro breaks it, surprisingly. “I haven’t really been involved in politics lately and updating myself on the web is Pidge’s thing. So,” he pauses awkwardly, as if confused with shaping the words. “What’s the deal with Lance’s family?”

Hunk brightens at the chance to talk about Lance, used to building him up over the years, even after the accident. He continues poking the older man as he speaks. “Lance comes from the Sanchez family, though he’s actually a McClain.”

“Actually a what?”

“A McClain. They used to be a huge family in the upper class. I’m talking funded hospitals, schools, you name it. In fact, the program I was in at University was because of their sponsorship.”

“Huh,” Shiro hums, no longer confused but interested. “So, he’s actually a McClain.”

“It was a huge scandal really, some say it was an affair, others say it was a strategic move, on the Sanchez family’s part. In the end, Lance was adopted in the Sanchez group with ease. He even became Dr. Sanchez’s favorite child. She brought him to all the gallery auctions and other stupid functions people with money do.”

“And the McClains?”

“Bankrupt nearly six years ago. Not a lot about it on the surface web but Pidge could tell you more.”

Shiro shakes his head. “I’m not so hot with that kind of thing. I’ll just take your word for it. I guess that makes Lance perfect for this mission.”

Hunk nods, delicately tracing the lines that bend to connect the hand to the wrist, feeling the slight hum of technology living against his skin. “Yeah, I may not tell Lance often, but he was groomed up for this stuff. Allura knew what she was doing when she picked him. Wonder why Keith is backup, though.” the last part sounds childish, even to him. Shiro must find it endearing because he shoots him a knowing look.

“She was probably thinking that your face might be too fresh, after Odysseus.”

Hunk whines, ignoring his attitude to finally release Shiro’s arm. “Everything is in order. You’ll be good.”

“Thanks.” Shiro wiggles his wrist left and right, before bending all of his fingers. 

“Hey, can I ask you something?” Hunk’s voice sounds small, Shiro picks it up. “What’s the deal with, you know,” he shrugs, looking away from him. “With you and Keith?”

“It’s complicated,” Shiro all but whispers, staring at his hand. The metal looks threatening in the low light of his lab. 

“He was really worried about you, after the  _ thing _ .” He sounds so meager, even Hunk is annoyed with himself.

“I didn’t mean to worry him. I’ll be careful next time.” Shiro looks up to face him properly and this time, Hunk is caught in his eyes, steel grey and arresting his attention, like venom in his blood. His veins feel thick, his body heavy with ink, black as oil. “I’m sorry, about my inaction.”

Hunk refuses it, thinks of how Keith threw himself at Matt to keep him off of him. “You’re gonna have to confess one day, Shiro.” He’s surprised by the low steadiness of his voice. “It’ll reach a point where the past will catch up to you, trust me I know. And you’ll either want us ready, beside you. Or dead.”

Shiro reaches up, prosthetic hand ripping at his collar and pulling him down, over his desk below his face. It burns his neck, makes the medical patch on his ribs sting but he holds eye contact. Shiro looks broken, like the night against Matt, like the moment Pidge confessed him in the hall when he thought no one else was around. In this moment, Shiro looks younger than them all.

“I won’t let it get that bad.”

“I want to trust you,” Hunk whispers. “You have no idea how much I do.” 

Shiro releases him, getting up briskly and making his way to the door. Hunk coughs to ease the small tenderness in his neck.

“I’ll get better,” Shiro’s voice carries a promise of something so powerful, like the investment of love a mother gives to a child, unconditional and on occasion, ruthless. “I won’t fail you.”

And Hunk believes him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Square up!" Hunk shouted, shoving Shiro's head against the table. Shiro gasps, pushing him away.
> 
> "I'll see you in the fucking pit," he hisses.


	12. Bastard Sons, Oh The Bastard Son

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Keith can't dress himself but also needs better control of those dang cyborg emotions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, here's another actionless chapter because what's science fiction with large amounts of snarky old political people with money laughing in a tall building together. 
> 
> WARNINGS:  
> Klance, Shojo Love Interest Keith, Haggar  
> Also BETA'd WOW. By the lovely Kouji.

Keith sometimes forgets that he should breathe.

It doesn’t happen often, in fact he could hardly stop when he was first enhanced. It felt strange not to, suck in oxygen, pause, exhale. He doesn’t really remember when he stopped breathing, assumes it was on those heavy nights of lying in bed with sleep escaping him, thinking about the bombing, thinking about Shiro, thinking about how his innards looks scattered around him and the  _ I can’t feel my legs please someone I can’t feel my arms. _ Keith doesn’t really think much about that time anymore, hardly has nightmares. Now, he sometimes forgets to breathe when he’s too focused.

The tie around his neck refuses to straighten and he feels like a heathen. 

The event in the Tro Pavilion has been marketed as an extravagant party meant to woo sponsors and thank those who have already given a suspiciously large sum. The guests were big names, according to Pidge, a high status invite only, with retina scanning as a precaution. The media has been kept hushed, Keith barely finding any notion of an event occurring, which implies that a sense of dubious legality. Something Lance had assured them when leaving the training deck to get ready, was common practice at these kind of social events.

“Strippers, probably. In the private back rooms,” he had said, his usual flirty demeanor dimmed down to a surprisingly bored tone. Lance gave Keith a curt smile then, rolled his shoulders and disappeared through the doors with Pidge, whispering to each other in quiet tones, intimate and very much distant from himself.

Keith has never been to a social event. The closest he’s gotten was a concert or two in the countries he was stationed at. He’s been a military son, born and raised on a base and shipped around like human debris ever since he could hold a gun. If it wasn’t for Shiro, despite all that happened in the end, Keith thinks he would perpetually remain in the hands of a system that cared little of whether he lived or died. At least Allura can fake guilt and compassion.

The third attempt on the tie has left it looking oddly like a noose around the pale of Keith’s neck. He nearly tears the fabric in half. 

He debates going without the red cloth, feels that the dress pants and collared black shirt looks formal enough, a suit jacket just to seal the deal. He knows better though, no matter how much he wants to ignore it. Groaning, he grabs his coat and promptly exits his room, heading down to Lance’s.

When he gets there, a knock provides no answer.

“Lance?” he calls, knocking again with less frustration and more concern for the lack of sound. No response. The possibility of Lance not being in his room annoys Keith and forces him to trudge his way to the next best place, Hunk’s lab.

He was right, can hear them talking softly through the door when he gets close. Hunk sounds excited, speaking a mile a minute only to be contrasted by the gentle sadness in Lance’s replies. Keith’s fist hesitates a few inches from the door. It feels like when Lance was walking away with Pidge, intimate and not for him. He feels irritated, almost angry at his childish need to gather Lance’s attention. He doesn’t knock this time, manually opens the door.

Hunk’s talking cuts off immediately, looking up at Keith from his place at his desk, a foot held in his hands. It takes Keith a few precious seconds to realize that the foot, brown skin and long, is attached to a slouched Lance on the other side, staring at Keith wide eyed and mouth agape. He’s wearing shorts, the ones that usually cut at his prosthetic but instead of the harsh metal, his flesh continues down to delicate toes, wiggling in Hunk’s grasp. He’s staring, he realizes with some horror, at the soft junction at Lance’s thigh, perfectly crafted to match his palette. 

“Keith?” Lance’s voice shocks him away and grabs his attention. Lance is red in the face, but more than anything, there’s something uncertain creeping in his eyes.

“Is that synthetic skin?” Keith asks, turning to look at Hunk who has now released the foot. He smiles big.

“Yeah! Lance wanted try it,” adding after a pause. “For the mission.”

“Right,” he nods. “For the mission.”

Lance abruptly pulls his leg away from Hunk and stands up. The image is jarring to Keith, having only known Lance with his enhancements and to see skin almost makes his shorts look borderline inappropriate. Keith refuses to acknowledge the whole situation.

“Did you need something?” Lance is moving towards him, signaling to Hunk that he’s leaving and pushing Keith out the door. “You look scared and confused.”

“You have legs.”

Lance blinks at him owlishly before grinning, making him feel uneasy. “Oh, do they distract you.”

“No.” He answered too sharply.

“I think they do!” Lance’s voice sounds shrill in the hallway. Keith wants to throttle him. Before he gets the chance, he’s following Lance into his room. It’s clean, very few personal belongings other than hygienic care. There’s a couple of photos that are tapped to his wall. In a quick glance, Keith can see shots of Pidge and Hunk in swimsuits, a few of Lance probably doing something stupid, and one of Hunk crying at what he suspects to be the first day of school. The image that draws his attention the most is the one framed photo, resting on Lance’s mostly empty desk. It’s bland, a family standing together, dressed in similar suits and faces. There’s more children of varying heights and ages than Keith can count in a quick observation before Lance is turning to face him.

“You may be an adrenaline junkie but at least you clean up nice,” he jokes, reaching for his own suit and pulling up his shirt. Keith looks away from the photo to watch him silently. The ridges of his spine appear harsh against his body, faintly discolored from the mechanics underneath. This time, Keith has the chance to count each bone, traces the ladder of cartilage until it vanishes under the waist of his pants. He’s missing a lot of the scarring that Keith has, the crisscrossing lines against his torso and back, sharp edges on his legs and arms. In fact, if Keith hadn’t noticed the prosthetic, he would have thought Lance looked like a civilian, fragile and unknown to violence.

Lance is very attuned to violence, not as much as Keith, but enough.

“Thanks..?” Is all he can say as he watches Lance finish dressing, pulling a pale blue tie around his neck. Practiced fingers move quickly to tie it, straight in the first try and tucked neatly under his collar. He’s fixing his cuffs when his attention finally turns to Keith.

“Your tie is uh..?”

“Yeah, that’s why I came here.”

“You can’t tie a tie? Holy shit.”

“Lance,” Keith hisses, walking up and sticking the red fabric at him aggressively. Lance looks down at the cloth, looks up at Keith’s face then back at the tie. A smile blooms on his face, genuine and snarky, all Lance and almost none of the sadness that seems to follow him like a shadow since the start of his mission. It makes something bubble in Keith’s chest, warm and he doesn’t find the feeling uncomfortable. He has to force himself not to smile in return, keeping the act of childish anger over his difficulties with looking proper.

“Give it here, cyborg wonder.” Lance’s fingers pull the offending tie from Keith’s hand, moving slowly to wrap it around his neck. They’re standing a breath apart. Lance smells clean, like the mint toothpaste he uses and some kind of fruity shampoo. Keith suddenly, for maybe the first time in his life, feels insecure, worries that maybe Lance will notice something wrong with him.

“You’re forgetting to breath again, man,” Lance mutters as fingers move to form a knot and pull the tie straight. “And blinking. Do not get me started on the blinking.”

Keith rolls his eyes. He feels long fingers leave his neck and almost mourns them. Again, he ignores the feeling. 

“Coran will be driving us, since Shiro is accompanying Allura to her meeting with the National Defense Committee.”

“Looks like we’re all going to fancy parties.”

“At least we get alcohol.” Lance blinks, before giving Keith another smile and this time, he shoots a sly smirk back. 

“We’re on the job. And only one of us can metabolize the alcohol rapidly at will.”

“I’m sure you can if you try hard enough.”

“Oh, fuck off.”

They make it to the car in relatively one piece, Lance having convinced Keith to braid his hair rather than the mess that rested on his shoulders. It’s a loose braid and Coran can’t seem to resist commenting on it.

“Looks very snazzy, Mr. Kogane,” he compliments, pulling the car into the highway. Lance wiggles his eyebrows at him.

“Yeah, very snazzy.”

Keith ignores them both, in favor of opening up the comm link between him and Lance. ‘Here’s another image of Zarkon.’ Lance falls silent, focused on Keith. ‘He’s meeting with a few backers in the grand hall for the majority of the party. There may be an instance where he’ll be pulled to the back room.’

‘For strippers.’

‘Probably not,’ Keith mentally responds. ‘He’s here for something. It’s not in the case file but something is just off.’

‘So,’ Lance responds. ‘We monitor him casually from afar.’

‘Right. He should have his own security stationed. We’re just an extra precaution.’

‘Break glass for emergency?’

Keith opens his door when they arrive to the towering building, large and intimidating, blinking beautifully against the darkness of the night sky. ‘Exactly.’ 

Coran is stationed at the parking lot, setting his comm link to their private chat as soon as both men enter the elevator. The whole situation is uncomfortable to Keith, from the marbled floors and intense chandeliers, to how easy Lance slips on a smile when they enter the ballroom on their floor. Immediately there is a small gathering of diplomats around them, eagerly pushing to shake their hands. They look young, just a little bit older than Lance, most with thick mustaches and charming lines under their eyes. 

‘They’re older than Coran,’ Lance speaks on the comm and Keith now understands why Lance was bothered by his stalled appearance. There’s something displeasant about being lied to so bluntly.

“Well, if it isn’t Dr. Sanchez’s boy,” a voice booms above the rest. She’s an older looking woman, relaxed in a perfect suit. Keith notices the prosthetic on her right hand appears to be made of gold, the fingers frozen into a cupped state but she still pushes it forward to make Lance shake, watches how he has to bend his fingers awkwardly to cup it. Lance’s smile barely falters. 

“It’s been awhile, Ma’am,” he responds. 

“Ah, yes. I remember when Dr. Sanchez had to hold your hand at these types of things,” she waves her functioning hand. Keith watches the movement intensely. “And please, call me Haggar. I mean, your mother and I are such dear friends.”

“Of course.” 

“And who’s this lovely man with you?”

“This is Chris, a colleague of mine.” The woman watches him with narrowed eyes. Keith wants to hiss but instead, attempts a fraction of Lance’s charm.

“It’s a pleasure,” he states, feeling the braid behind him sway as he reaches out to shake her hand as Lance did. She pulls the metal away from him, something cruel in her eyes before sticking out her left hand, large ring glaring color in his eyes. He realizes with mild anger what she’s implying and Lance is watching him closely from his peripheral. Keith bends his back, gently takes her hand, enjoying the mild idea of crushing her fingers to dust in his grip, before placing his lips against the jewel.

“What a charming boy you have here,” her voice mocks, pulling her hand gracefully away. Keith stands straight again beside Lance, who’s smile slipped a little, clear displeasure in his eyes. Haggar seems entranced with him.

“I hope you’re not bullying these young men,” comes another interruption and Keith honestly understands why Lance wanted to avoid this mission. The voice belongs to none other than Zarkon, dressed as smartly as in the photo. He looks his age, a weird contrast to all the young faces around them in the party.

“All in good fun,” Lance laughs, somehow making everything seem pleasant despite Keith debating whether or not he’s allowed to reveal he’s fully cybernized by kicking someone’s teeth in. 

Zarkon looks at them knowingly and even Lance struggles to keep his gaze. “Ah, well if it isn’t Dr. Sanchez’s bastard son.”

The insult shoots through Keith, shocks him enough to involuntarily widen his eyes. He moves without thinking, closing the distance until he’s standing before Lance. “What did you just--”

“Chris.” He sounds peaceful, an acceptance that makes Keith’s stomach drop deep into nothing. 

“Oh, I forget how those not in the social circle don’t know many details.” Zarkon almost looks sincere. Keith imagines what Shiro must have felt working for him, even indirectly. He wants to cause a scene, he wants to leave.

Lance puts his hand on Keith’s shoulder, his palm warm even through the suit. “Understandable.” Zarkon nods, tipping his cane to excuse himself from the two, Haggar following him closely to the end of the ballroom.

“Holy shit.” Keith looks at Lance, his smile dropping and he looks tired as he runs a hand across his face. “I need a drink.”

Keith examines that the tracker he placed on Haggar’s sleeve during the greeting was functioning, worth the anger and confrontation of the whole situation. He pulls the band out of his hair, breaking the braid and letting black strands fall around his face. Lance is watching him.

“More like ten of them.”

“Again, fuck you.”

Lance shoots him a grin, eyes sparkling like the glass light fixtures and Keith knows that despite his artificial body, his feelings are brimming and real. 

He breathes out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Fuck Haggar too that decrepit fuck Keith shoulda hocked a loogie on her ring" - Kouji


	13. Oh Messiah

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lance trembles over the weight of his world and the weight of Keith's.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess who finally updated. It only took 233 years so thanks for everything everyone. This chapter was difficult to write and does touch on some unhealthy and sensitive topics so please mind the warning. THANKS FOR ALL THE POSITIVE COMMENTS. It's you guys who pushed me to finally finish, despite classes starting again and my work picking up. This was a good break, no matter how difficult to write.
> 
> I personally tend not to write sex scenes well so here is my attempt at them again for the first time in a long time. Hope it's not a miserable mess of mistakes.
> 
> WARNINGS:  
> Klance, Explicit Sexual Content, Hinted Child Abuse, Unbeta'd because I just wanted to get this out there (I'll edit it tomorrow when I'm less tired and ready to die TM).

Lance keeps his face neutral as he watches Keith, calmly swirling the third glass of wine in his hand, smiling at something a elderly diplomate hurriedly tells him. Despite Keith’s earlier awkwardness, he doesn’t look so out of place. The suit, for lack of better words, suits him, dresses him up and when violet eyes turn to look at him, raising an eyebrow in question, Lance thinks they shine.

“Don’t you agree?” The question draws him back to the present, facing the woman in front of him. He looks at the wrinkles at the edges of her eyes, the slight wilt in her smile as he scrambles to remember the topic. 

“I mean,” Lance’s words find themselves faster than his voice, creeping out the corner of his teeth like a serpent and even he thinks he sounds as sinister as the crowd. “There’s no point in delaying construction over such a simple obstacle as relocation. The Dead Joint District is called  _ dead _ for a reason.”

The woman seems to approve of his answer, much to Lance’s inner disgust. He holds his tongue from curling in his mouth, stopping a forming hiss with a charming smile. Keith, from the corner of his eye, takes another sip of his drink and purses his lips.

“It’s very reflective of the nation, interestingly enough.”

That snaps his attention forward quickly. There’s a familiarity to that statement that almost has him connecting to the commlink to contact Pidge. He tries to look as if he hasn’t stumbled. He feels as if he was twelve again, hand encased in the calloused hold of Dr. Sanchez, her cold eyes keeping his spine straight and tight when he stood. “What do you mean by that?”

She laughs, her voice and pleasant to his ears, a contrast to the horrors of Haggar but just as cruel at the nerves in his brain, pinching them between well kept fingernails. Allura swims into his mind before he brushes her away when the woman hands him another glass of wine. It’s the third time she’s done it, tension in the color that sparks on her ears.  _ Ah, she wants to sleep with me. _

He accepts the drink, ignoring the near silent  _ tsk _ from his partner at his back.

"I mean, with the way things are changing, we’re pulling ourselves out of stunted growth.” Lance nods, still piecing her words together as she covers her mouth to chuckle. “In many ways, this nation we love so much is becoming a dead end.”

Lance nearly lets the wine glass slip through his steady fingers, catching it and taking a sip in a smooth motion. He manages to steal a glance at Keith, who’s shoulders tense and Lance knows he’s now listening intensely. 

“You think so?”

“Of course, we made no progression in advancement, other than military in the past 40 years. The world will not wait for us,” she hums, wiggling her finger at him as if he was a student in need of lecture. Lance grins, fingers reaching to scratch the hair at the nape of his neck.

“I didn't think we were doing so terrible.”

“It’s all because of the push by men like Zarkon,” his name rolls off her tongue too sweetly. “We are moving forward to better pastures, stronger structures and government.”

“As well as handling immigration?”

“Exactly,” her fist collides with her other hand’s open palm in excitement. “The immigration into run down districts like Dead Joints are a shackle we need to free ourselves from.” Keith had managed to worm his way into their small circle when she finished, taking the drink out of Lance’s hand, more than half finished, before drinking it all in one smooth gulp. 

He places the drink on a moving tray and Lance keeps his focus away from how Keith smiles at the woman, the expression unnatural on his face, but not unwanted. Lance wishes they were alone. “What of the veterans?”

The woman looks confused, pushing Keith to continue. “Dead Joints is not only populated by immigrants, but also civilians who cannot afford housing in other districts, as well as veterans from the Voltron War.”

“Interesting viewpoint,” Lance responds, playing his role as the nonbeliever, the Judas in their little act. Keith catches on without a whisper in the comms. “Sadly, although we love our troops, the war has been long over. These are people who refuse to enhance, assimilate or rehabilitate back into society.”

“Are you calling them human debris?”

Lance cringes at the word, knows Keith has personal history to its usage in the military. “Possibly,” is all he responds, following Keith’s lead and plucking the drink from the woman’s hands, finishing it off. The color on her cheeks shows that _ oh she likes that _ . Her eyes keeps shifting from him to Keith, almost unable to decide who to focus on. 

_ ‘You know, she wants a threewa--’  
_ _ 'Focus, Lance.’ _

“You both make very valid points,” she laughs, the blush on her face hardly fading as she watches them closely, tugging at the hair behind her ear nervously. Lance wishes he could remember her name. “Though, Keith was it? Though you make arguments against the renovation, you attend such parties?”

_ ‘Called the fuck out.’ _

Keith knows better than to answer defensively, much to Lance’s surprise. Instead, he takes his time to reach his hand up to push his hair back, away from his face and  _ he knows what he’s fucking doing. _ The man, tie as red as the woman’s face, shoots her a smile, though Lance would argue was loopsided.

“What can I say,” he laughs, voice light and -- “I’m interested in seeing how ‘men like Zarkon’ will pull our beloved nation from the depths of endanger.”

“Yes, ah--” the woman begins but is swiftly interrupted by the a smooth voice, trained down to each expressed syllable. “Hello, Lance.”

Lance curses himself, curses Allura and her lack of debriefing, curses Keith and the color of his not real eyes. “Dr. Sanchez,” he responds quickly, teething worrying at this lips immediately, which doesn’t escape the older woman’s eyes.

Their lovely guest finally loses her blush as she excuses herself, almost tasting the change in the atmosphere as it rests thick on her tongue.

Keith looks at Lance, no surprise in his face but that’s the beauty of a full cybernized body. Dr. Sanchez spots it effortlessly. “I see your friend here was military.”

Lance can’t look her in the eyes, stares at the wrinkles of her cheeks and the paling strands of her hair. “Stop biting you lips Lance, it’s unbecoming. Look me in the eyes.” He follows the orders without hesitation, eyes wide as he realizes what he’s done. This time, Keith does express some surprise. Dr. Sanchez returns her attention to him.

“I guess the question is ex military or current?” 

__ ‘Does she know?’  
_ ‘Allura said that our military status is purely confidential.’ _    
__ ‘She’s got an eye for it.’

Lance watches Keith’s eyes train onto his mother’s face, keeping contact and giving her an unsure smile. “Ex military, Dr. Sanchez. I was in an unfortunate accident.”

“A shame really,” the woman responds, clicking her tongue. Her focus narrows back on to Lance with aged practice, trailing down his form to the legs tucked under dress pants. “Mr. Kekoa finally managed to convince you of self improvement, I see.”

Lance laughs and even he can hear how strained it sounds. “Yes, mother. Hunk designed them specifically.”

“He was always a bright young boy.” 

“He still is,” Keith interrupts and Lance wants to tell him that Dr. Sanchez hates to be interrupted but she’s laughing, sweet and almost kind. 

“Your cyborg friend is very headstrong.”

“Yeah,” is all he can say, looking at the rise and fall of her shoulders, the weird sparkle in her eyes. Her hand reaches up, landing softly on Lance’s cheek, rough against the flush of his skin. Suddenly, he’s twelve, crying about something small and trivial and she’s coaxing him calm, her voice a steady lull. He remembers how her voice sounds against the heavy beating of the rain, the feel of her fingers stroking his in pleasant circles. Lance remembers her voice pressing to the delicate hairs on the back of his neck. He feels sick.

“You’ve grown into a fine young man.” Lance doesn’t reply, he  _ can’t _ . Keith reaches up, just as fast as training, to wrap solid fingers against a thin dark wrist, eyes unblinking at Dr. Sanchez. She looks surprised, eyes wide and mouth dropping open. Keith looks nearly as shocked at his reaction. Lance holds his tongue for the first time since he’s been paired with the cyborg.

“It’s getting late,” Keith manages to say, keeping his voice light and polite, despite pulling the hand away from Lance’s face and letting it fall to his mother’s side. “We’ll be heading off.”

“Ah yes, that’s right.” She sounds thoughtful, giving him a loose smile. “You two are busy, doing ex military things I assume.”

Keith doesn’t dignify her with an answer. “It was a pleasure, Dr. Sanchez.”

“Please,” she hums while Lance is being pulled towards the exit. “Call me mother, dear.”

The elevator ride is a quiet one, the opposite mood from their arrival. Lance can’t find it in his heart to say anything. He feels barely lucid, like he might lose orientation with himself at any point, misdirects his attention to the way Keith’s artificial adam’s apple bobs with his own struggle to speak. He seems to find the words right before they reach the ground floor.

“Haggar and Zarkon’s conversation has been fully recorded and sent to Pidge for analysis.”

“That’s good.”

The doors open with a shrill ring and they walk uniformly to the car; Coran frantically waving at them. It’s raining now, and as they cross the street, water soaking their clothes, Coran seems to read the mood and cease his excitement.

The ride is made as a makeshift conference. Coran is updated, given a direct message for Allura by Keith and a promise to discuss more once Pidge breaks down anything obvious to the conversation.

“How did Zarkon exit?”

Lance doesn’t know the answer to that question. In fact, after his mother appeared, he seemed to have lost his perception, his surroundings bleeding into a blurry image. 

“It was during our conversation with Dr. Sanchez. He felt through the backway with a personal guard.”

“I see. Excellent work, boys.”

“Yeah.”

They arrive back to the base without a hitch, even managing to avoid traffic this late at night. Lance slowly trudges to his room, pants feeling heavy and head somewhere else. He’s mildly aware Keith is following him soundlessly down the corridor, not a single squeak of his shoes that are undoubtedly wet.

His door opens unceremoniously and he nearly trips at the entrance. Keith is standing right outside, awkwardly shuffling his weight from his left to his right. Lance pretends to pay him no mind, pulling the soaked tie from his neck. The cloth drops anticlimactically to the floor and he works on the buttons of his shirt until he can slide both the coat and it down past his shoulders. When he’s standing in only his dress pants, toeing off his shoes, he chooses then to look at Keith, remaining still at the door. He doesn’t turn his body, only cranes his neck.

“Are you coming in?” 

The question is holds more weight than either of them are prepared to handle, more than just  _ sex _ but Keith understands. He looks at him the same way he catches him looking at Shiro. There’s a longing, and Lance can deal with longing, has seen it time and time before. It’s what’s underneath that scares him, something much more real than a sexual attraction.

Keith wastes no time, shuffles in and finally letting the automatic door shut behind him, successfully cutting off all the light filtering into the room from the hallway. Lance feels him before he sees him, pressing into his back. His shirt is gone as well but the skin on Keith’s body is still cool to touch, almost frozen against the growing heat of Lance’s own. 

He’s not breathing, his chest to his back, and that unsettles Lance, reminds him that makeshift relationships are made to patch up missing real ones. Keith’s lips ghost his neck, making him bite into the flesh of his mouth before a small sound escapes him. It’s a whine, it’s  _ needy _ . Arms wrap around him, pulling him flush against a firm chest. When they kiss, there is none of the gentleness that sits quiet behind Keith’s eyes. It’s clunky, their teeth hit clumsily and Lance can’t stop the hitch in his voice when he turns to face him. He lets himself be pushed back into his desk, enjoying the way hold hands roll down his waist to grip the edge of his pants, making him rock his hips to push the fabric down his legs. 

Lance can’t feel the cold of his toes and he hates it. There’s nothing below his calves, almost makes him want to stop whatever  _ this  _ was but Keith reaches sharp fingers to hold the back of his thighs, digging into the flesh right before bone meets metal. He hefts Lance up onto the table, making room for himself between his legs and pushing their chests together once more.

“You look so good,” Keith mumbles, straining his neck slightly to reach his lips to Lance’s. Lance likes that, finds the compliments settle well into his gut, warms his face and the tips of his ears. Keith apparently can’t hold his tongue for once, a flood of “ _ Lance _ ” and “ _ you’re so warm _ ”. His voice sounds lower than usual to him and for a moment, he wonders how that works, from the delicate mechanisms that twist and turn in Keith’s throat to provide sound. 

“I want you,” he hears his voice, surprising himself as he chases the other lips because the kissing is nice. Keith is nice, with his eyes, unwavering and the small sounds he makes whenever Lance rubs his hips forward. They rut against each other for what feels like forever, teeth sinking into the junction of his neck.

“Do you?” There’s a fragility to Keith’s voice that Lance has never heard before. He clings to it, wrapping his hands around his neck and pulling the cyborg closer. He feels hard under his pants, heavy and warm. Lance thanks whatever power that be that at least Keith as a functioning lower half. He brings his leg up to poke at the waistband of Keith’s own pants, using his toes to tug it down. Keith gets the hint, dropping one hand down to unbutton himself free. 

“Come on, come  _ on _ ,” Lance sounds like he’s begging.

“Shit.”

They can’t seem to fit together right when they keep interrupting the process to make out. Keith’s tongue feels real and Lance wants to drink him whole like the holy grail itself, sucking on the appendage and ignoring how drool pools at the corner of his mouth. Keith’s hands wander, one landing on his ass, pulling the cheek tight, makes Lance moan around his mouth while the other wraps around the back of his neck, tightly slightly and  _ oh _ Lance likes that very much.

The hand continues to creep up, cradling Lance’s cheek before moving to the space between their lips, pressing softly against his until he looks Keith in the eyes and opens his mouth, wide and wet. There’s no pause, Keith’s fingers slipping in with ease, dipping into the saliva that built up. Lance likes the weight of the digits against his tongue as he sucks. Keith shoves his dick harsher against the cloth of his boxers, continuing the fucking motion of his fingers in time with his thrusts. 

He’s panting now, trying to breath around the increasing amount of fingers inside his mouth, now at four with Keith’s thumb holding his chin tightly, forcing his mouth to remain open. 

“You look like a mess.” Lance nods, frantically jutting his hips against the roll of Keith’s, try to beg with his eyes. He almost gets desperate to use the commlink, whine at the enhanced man to stop messing with him and just fuck him already.

From the way Keith’s lets up with his fingers, he seems to get the message. He drags Lance down to a slouch against the wall, pulling his legs apart and nearly ripping his boxers in the process of removal. “Should I grab--” he finishes the sentence with his eyes.

Lance shakes his head, letting his tongue roam around his lips to clean himself, albeit only a small amount. “No, don’t, don’t  _ ah fuck _ bother. Don’t bother,” his thighs are shaking and Keith hasn’t let up with rubbing their erections together. “I’m a big boy.”

The eye roll was not unexpected. “Sure you are,” Keith mutters before following Lance’s eyes to a drawer in his desk, swiftly opening it with his foot, much to Lance’s chagrin. He wants to complain, tell Keith he’s cheating because stretching that far would hurt any  _ normal _ person. He can’t though, he feels too light, weightless and maybe something pleasant bubbling in his chest like bile. He wants Keith to keep his eyes trained on him. 

When his attention does return to Lance, it’s with a small bottle of lube tucked between two of his fingers. It’s cold on his ass as he drips it, cupping his hand at the end to collect what trails away and uses it to coat his fingers. Lance is growing impatient, “Keith, stop fucking messing around an--”

He can’t finish because two fingers push long past the tips into him, solid and hard “ _ fuck, that’s cold. _ ”

Keith shoots him a smirk and Lance wants to punch him in his pretty mouth. “Sorry,” he nearly laughs out, fake puffs of breath hitting his nose but he doesn’t sound sorry. Lance doesn’t mind as much as he should.

Two fingers make way for three causing Lance to writhe against the sensation, feeling them cross inside before rubbing at his walls. His toes curl. “Do you,” he bites a groan. “Do you get off on long fucking foreplay?”

“You always mock me for my short fuse. Just wanted to see, is all.”

“Fuck you, robocop.”

That gets Keith going, of all the fucking things, and makes him roughly bring Lance closer to him, lines himself up before pushing in. Lance almost wishes he had more preparation, no matter his whining, because it’s larger than he thought, cold against his body heat. Keith buries his head in the crook of Lance’s neck, hair falling like an oil spill onto his dark chest. 

When he’s fully in, Lance thinks he’s dying. It’s so  _ cold _ against his skin, almost feels dreamlike until Keith starts moving, snapping his hips flat against Lance’s. The noises that leave his throat are embarrassingly loud against the quiet hallway. He briefly hopes no one is around before his vision whites out with teeth sinking deep into his neck. 

“Keith, please,  _ please... _ ” He’s babbling like a baby, drooling again. He clenches when his feels Keith brush against his prostate, hitting it without much thought or remorse before continuing to angle his thrusts at it. “I can’t,” Lance pleads, shaking his head rapidly from side to side.

Keith is licking at the wound on his neck, sucking like he’s dying, and maybe they both are. Maybe Keith really did die when he was blown up and sprayed across the battlefield. Maybe Lance died when his father did, or when Dr. Sanc--his mother took him in, or the accident that had Hunk waste two years of his life waiting for him. 

“No,” Keith says, pulling himself up to look at Lance through his hair, sweeping over his face and was Keith always so beautiful. Lance runs his fingers along the jagged scars across his back. “No, we’re not dead,” and fuck he was spewing his thoughts out loud. “You’re alive, Lance,” he mutters, back muscles tensing either under Lance’s touch or the force of his hips moving faster and faster against Lance, pushing in as deep as he can. “I’m alive.” 

There’s something in Keith’s eyes that deem a response. “You’re alive,” he repeats back to him, staring at violet eyes, pupils blown wide and vulnerable. “You’re alive, Keith.” 

Something in the cyborg breaks, crumbles like the shattered rocks at sea, pressed firmly into diamonds. Lance’s fingers reach up to push his hair from his face, soft black strands following his fingers onto his scalp. He orgasms with no warning, tightening around Keith but unable to turn away from his eyes. Keith follows soon after, biting his lip as he stares Lance down, fingers digging unforgivingly into dark hips, sure to bruise tomorrow.

Lance’s thumbs, resting on Keith’s cheeks almost lovingly, collect a small puddles of free falling tears.

Lance kisses him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I set out to write filth and just ended up getting sad.  
> ghostering@tumblr


	14. Wonderful times

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shiro thinks they're all too delicate for this job.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> long time no see. OSD is almost done (1 more chapter!) which will push TDEN back to regular updates. 
> 
> WARNINGS:  
> Shallura intimacy!, Implied Child Violence, Panic Attacks and not great ways to handle them

Sendak’s eyes, optic-lens and all natural, dig deep into the hollow echoes of Shiro’s bones. He holds his tongue, stands securely behind Allura with his hands dutifully held together behind his back. He’s picture perfect and knows it, the golden soldier, a cruelty in his stance he can’t beat out. Allura seems to enjoy it, taking a seat leisurely as the prime minister, chief secretary of defense, and three other delegates wait for her.

Her instructions were clear on their walk towards the conference room. Shiro was to remain quiet, provide a hostile air that causes stifling tension between the men, mainly Sendak. He was to hold his attention and allow Allura to slip through the cracks with delicate and practiced ease. 

“Wonderful of you to join us,” Sendak grunts, the only member in the room to delay his formal greeting when she enters. The coy smile on her lips, nude and full and eye catching, Shiro notes, is the only sign that she’s heard him before her attention shifts to the figure head. 

“I hope my unit has proven their worth,” she states, almost nonchalant. The prime minister smiles, deep lines on his hardened face. There’s something about him, something old and rotting, that sets Shiro on the balls of his heels, makes his hand tighten around his fingers, cold metal against heated skin.

Sendak shifts in his chair, agitation clear on his face. “That little display was over the top.”

“Hardly, Chief Secretary,” she purrs, low and sultry and she’s never spoken to the team like this. It’s deadly, different and diplomatic, unsettlingly horrid and shallow. His fingers continue to twitch but now he wonders who Allura is, if Pidge was right. “My team accurately displayed their talents and efficiency at small assignments.”

That gets Sendak reeling, has him standing up to shout “Small?” while the prime minister waves him down.

“Barely worth the whole unit there,” Allura continues, crossing her legs and reaching for a sip of the cooled tea, probably unbearable to her but her reaction is nonexistent. Shiro knows that this is a power play, that chess is being battled with every party in the room, including him, standing as the bishop behind the queen to finish off any pieces left on the board. 

“It was a spectacle.” The minister’s voice grates his nerves, scratches against the bones in his spine and makes the hairs on his neck stand up. Shiro wants to narrow his eyes but remains neutral. The voice sounds haunting, like a ghost in a past he never really lived. It’s odd, sets him off course in the Earth’s natural rotation. He thinks of Keith, scattered on the ground and his own cowardice. “But an enjoyable one at that. You may keep your team, Lt. Col. Allura.”

Shiro releases a breath he hadn’t known he’s been holding, drawing the man’s eyes to him. He freezes, recognizes the eyes and not the man, the look of a soldier no longer afraid to die. Ghastly and violent, a rush of brutality Shiro hasn’t experienced in so long he fears he longs for it. He chews his tongue.

“I expected no less,” Allura hums, leaning back against the seat and reaching her hand up, palm stretched. The callouses on her hands are a stark contrast to her poised appearance, scars littering her knuckles and engraving themselves deep into her thumb. Shiro hands her the file with much less grace, stiff and structured. 

She takes the paperwork lazily, handing it to the prime minister. “A paper copy?” Sendak mocks. 

“Rather not leave a hackable trail,” Allura barely bats an eye at him, focused more heavily on leader of the room, reaching out to hand it to him. The Prime Minister accepts it without opening, giving her a gracious smile. Shiro feels a snarl coming on, doesn’t like the way he looks at her. 

“Is this all?” The man says and after Allura nods, he leans back. “Well, your funding will continue for your section, though you will be receiving more heavy handed assignments.”

“I expect no less. Thank you, sir,” she thanks, standing up swiftly. She signals Shiro to follow her as she makes her way to the door, ignoring the sneer from Sendak behind them. Only when they reach the elevator does she speak to him.

“Short meeting but I feel as if I lost a few years of my life.” 

He agrees, more than anything. “What’s Sendak’s thing with you?”

“We are overstepping our boundaries. If anything, we are slowly taking tasks from his division.” Shiro doesn’t say anything, just eyes her from his peripheral until he feels her buckle under the weight. “He holds personal hostility towards my father.”

“Senator Alfor?” Shiro asks, scouring his brain for any information. 

“Yes,” Allura hums, soft against the working machinery. The doors open and the two of them head towards the car. “My father was a brilliant man, Shiro.”

“I heard he was running for Prime Minister before he was assassinated.”

Allura watches him as he steps into the driver’s seat. She takes position in the back, solidifying the low waiting power dynamic. He’s acutely reminded of his place in her checkbook. “Yes, my father was a liberal man until he was shot.”

“He’s not often brought up in the media.”

“It was an inside job.” Shiro knew. Allura knew that Shiro of all people knew. “That’s how politics work,” she whispers, smoothing the wrinkles of her skirt with gun powdered fingers. “Don’t let Lance tell you otherwise.”

Shiro pulls out of the parking lot, smoothly entering the waiting highway. “He doesn’t.”

“Smart boy,” she mumbles into her palm, staring out the window at the moving traffic, the rain heavier than usual. 

“Is that why you turned to the military?” He can’t help but ask her, feels a burning desire to wonder of her, understand the landscape of her childhood and trace the point markers. 

Allura doesn’t answer for a while, sighing deep to trace small patterns in the fog build up of the glass. “No. I was much too young to join the military the day my father passed.”

“I see,” Shiro turns to the right, nearing their communal home. “What happened to you after your father?”

“I’m still living it, aren’t I?”

It’s an unusual response, silences the nagging feeling in his gut to push past her barriers and see the specks of something dark, almost as sinister as himself, inside her. “We all have our wounds, Shiro,” her voice rings as he parks the car. He works against the door to get out and open hers, bowing slightly as she exits the vehicle. “Some of us prefer to lick ours alone.”

He watches her walk head, a lag in her step he’s never noticed but realizes with underlying dread, has been there all along. The need to hold her clutches against something heavy in his chest, something he thought died when he did, that day on the field, after Keith scattered around the earth and Matt--

“Gets some rest, Shiro,” Allura calls to him from the door, head turned to face him with a smile on her lips. It looks impossibly sad, tired with ancient yearnings that Shiro firmly believes she will carry to the end of her life, whenever that might be.

“Of course,” he smiles, a reflection of her own and that wipes her expression clean. She walks inside to leave him awkwardly waiting until the click of her heels vanished behind closed doors.

***

He can’t sleep. With Keith and Lance on their own operation, Hunk handling repairs on the automechanic cruisers and Pidge acting as backup, there’s an eerie silence. It’s deafening, blares against Shiro’s guts and vibrates his prosthetic in monstrous ways. He can’t settle, turning in his bed and sweating. His hair sticks to his forehead, his breathing growing increasingly difficult.

He thinks maybe he’s having a panic attack, hasn’t had one since he’s seen Keith, since he thought Matt was dead and buried, since his arm was shattered beyond repair and the offer was too good and--

He’s struggling to breathe, hates himself with a weight of something grotesque and large and endless. Shiro could drown in it, swallow it into his lungs despite the thickness of it, slug against his stomach. He forces vomit down as he gets up, exiting his room with a stumble.

Standing outside of Allura’s room was unintentional, a thrumming in his ears that bounces against the walls of his skull. He wants to leave but his legs won’t carry him elsewhere. When he knocks, it’s loud against the stillness of the hallway, unnatural with the tightening muscles of his fist. 

The door opens out soundlessly in contrast, the light of her room welcoming. She’s waiting for him, a finished drinking settling comfortably to her right,

“Allura,” Shiro croaks, feeling his body ache. He’s just so tired, of the fighting and the constant hating of who he is, what he’s become and what he feels he’s running from. She understands all that from the whisper of her name alone, outstretches her arms for him and with a couple of steps forward, Shiro falls into them wordlessly.

She holds him tenderly in her arms, his head cradled in her shoulder, a firm expanse of skin that grounds him. “Shh,” Allura hums out softly, stroking the back of his neck to the short hairs there. Her hands are warm, hard with work and scarring. They sooth something inside him. He thinks Allura understands something he learned long ago, that there are no good people and bad people. Just people who suffer more and suffer less and that suffering breeds something horrific and strong. Shiro lets her hold him, her frame so much smaller and compact than his, yet she held him together as he trembled. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispers into her flesh, deep brown and glowing in the minimal light. She’s glorious, a natural beauty that gravitates towards her, pulling the air thin strict in Shiro lungs. 

Allura guides him easy enough to rest on the bed, her thighs firm on either side of him. The nightgown she’s wearing, a red that sets off something malicious in Shiro, hangs loosely off her shoulders as she towers him.

“You need to,” her voice quiet, tenderly dipping her fingers into the lining of his chest, circling his heart before resting her palm flat against his skin. Her hand is calming, taming the rapid movement of his lungs, setting him still. “Talk through what happened, Shiro.”

Shiro shakes his head, eyes trained on the soft strands that fall from Allura’s neck to trail down her chest. “I can’t,” he whines out and decides that all those years of training, of steadfast emotional control, crumble into nothing at the face of her. “I don’t even know who I am.”

Her palm takes a sinister turn, nails digging into the flesh that has Shiro hissing but not flinching away. “You’re Shirogane Takashi. Nothing more,” she leans down, presses her lips against the corner of his mouth. “Nothing less.”

“I feel less,” Shiro mutters, turning to kiss her, opened mouth and childlike. He feels unsure of himself, hasn’t been with anyone since Farefield. Shiro doesn’t dare move his arms, laying dead to his sides. The moment might shatter and he could be forced to face who is, a small artificial carbon copy of the Grand Shirogane Takashi, the one Keith searches for in his eyes, the one Pidge thinks sits dormant. Shiro knows, intimately, that he died, just as his arm, the nerve endings of Takashi rotted, poisoned his blood and weakened him. Just as decaying flesh, it was removed from him with the swiftness of a surgical blade.

“It’s alright,” Allura speaks softly into his ear, her hand caressing his cheek in delicate strokes. Shiro hadn’t noticed they had stopped kissing, rather he thinks he’s too busy holding back tears. He feels sick.

“I think I’m breaking,” he whispers to no one, the lamp maybe, the loose pieces of Allura’s hair, the cool metal of his hand. “I think I’m dying.”

“Fight it.”

Her voice rings clear, hard against any emotion Shiro feels swirling in his head.  He looks up to face her, then trails down her body, naked now against his own. He looks at the deep scars, under her breast and over her abdomen, lighter skin and risen. They’re old, some older than Shiro thinks were her military days. His hands get the message, reaching up slowly to grasp her waist before trailing the marks with his fingers, watching the hiccups in her breath. 

Her palm is still warm on his cheek. “When my father died, I was forced out of my home. Coran became my guardian, but he was made to be disgraced.”

Shiro swallows, keeping quiet as she bends down, their lips nearly touching. “We were out of options, starve on the streets of Troy or live in the Dead Joints District.”

“You lived there?”

“Yes,” she hisses when Shiro’s fingers graze against an especially long scar near her spine, encompassing the majority of her back. “I knew, from that moment I stared up the crumbling buildings, that I would climb to the top.”

Allura turns to face him and Shiro realizes it with horrid fascination. “I was going to avenge my father, Shiro.”

Her eyes were like his.

"I'll take care of you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i just wanna sleep forever maybe


	15. Ultralight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pidge wonders when was the last time Hunk ever let someone carry his weight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> long time to see! i've been busy, working on some original stuff and a patreon. here's a small interlude chapter before the big one. that's all folks.

Katie sits between mourning and sleep.

Her body is heavy against the backdrop of her room, shrouded in darkness as the thunder snaps near her window. She feels small, curled at the edge of her brother’s lap, tears soaking into the fabric of his pants.

Matt’s patting her on the head, soothing tugs of her hair to pull the loose strands from the elastic. Katie can’t find it in herself to shrug him off. It’s an odd sense of comfort.

“You can’t keep crying, Katie.” Matt’s voice is a whisper against the bang of lightning outside, flashing so bright and  brief that she’s momentarily blinded. .

“He was barely four years old!” She cries, sitting to attention. Her hair falls around her wildly, framing her chin with misshapen curls. She can see the reflection of her eyes in Matt’s glasses, rimmed with red.

“Rover was a good dog,” Matt starts but Katie is having none of it, ripping herself free to scooch to the other end of the couch, betrayal clearly written on her expression. Her brother sighs. “Rover was a good dog, but these things happen.”

“No,” Katie hisses, sharp and in time with the booming clap of the storm raging outside. “These things don’t just  _ happen _ .” Matt’s expression softens.

She hates that look.

It means she must look like a child, that for all her genius she’s still the baby sister in his eyes. She wants to punch his teeth in, she wants him to pet her hair.

“Sometimes—” Matt slowly makes his way down the couch towards her, easing slowly against the leather as if a harsh sound would startle Katie aware. She doesn’t move from her spot, but rather her skin prickles with excitement. He doesn’t disappoint, making quick work of wrapping her in his arms once again, planting his chin on the top of her head. She can feel his glasses bend askew. “Sometimes animals die, just like people. Rover did a brave thing.”

“I know that,” Katie scolds, frowning into his chest but she remains there nonetheless, fingers lazily gripping the ugly stripes of his shirt. She can’t see him but something tells her he’s smiling. “I’m not an idiot.”

“Oh, I know.” The thunder is laughing at them, shaking the windows and rattling Katie’s skull for any more loose tears. Fortunately, she has none left to spare.

They sit there for a while longer, alone in their apartment. Matt humming a tune that burns into her mind and Katie collecting the small hiccups in her voice to keep them close.

\--

Pidge catches the tail end of Shiro, shuffling soundlessly to his room in the middle of the night. His feet drag against the black glass of the floor, sticking with sweat but nonetheless toneless as he moves. She’s only there because she can’t close her eyes, knows that behind her lids awaits a smile she barely recognizes. So she sits here, in the middle of the training room, large and open, a direct view into the hallway. Shiro doesn’t seem to notice her in return, likely still asleep as he stumbles into his room on shaky feet. The door closes as the first strike of light hits the sky.

The shock of white that floods the room blinds her but she refuses to blink. There’s something lurking in the back of her mind, tip toeing around the corners of her vision with a black silhouette that looks too familiar for Pidge to ignore. She’s afraid that if she looks directly at  _ him _ , she won’t be able to stop the bile rising from her throat. Just the thought makes an arm snaps up to push harshly against her lips, steeling her as sweat collects on her forehead. She’s shaking, worryingly warm when her bare back presses against the coolness of the glass windows towering over her. They don’t rattle like the ones in her home used to do. 

When Pidge turns, her eyes fall to the outside world, her cheek tight against the glass to stop what feels like a fever. If she squints, she imagines she would see the bright high beams of Odysseus Palace, a daunting blue over the storm. She’s not though, because squinting is too close to shutting her eyes and sleep is waiting for a moment of weakness, looming over her thoughts. 

When Matt smiled, his teeth on the far left were crooked endearingly.

When Matt smiles in her memories now, all Pidge sees are perfect teeth and a missing everything. 

She’s attempted to play it off, hide the amount of damage this revelation is causing her. That her dead brother of four years was never really dead, but very much alive, even in the most disjointed way. His movements, nearly inhuman in their reflex, startles her to the point where she catches herself staring at Shiro’s arm. 

The lightning strikes again and Pidge pushes her face harder against the window, nearly shutting one eye from the force. Her breath causes fog to build up, compelling her to raise a finger and slowly write out her name in cursive. She accentuates the curls of the ‘K’, dotting her ‘i’ at the end with her thumb. She continues right below it, making quick work of ‘Rover’ before stuttering to a halt at the beginning of an elegant ‘M’. The ends turn up in a near sinister fashion, as if cruelly reminding her that these small moments of peace are merely breathing spaces, pockets of air a man trapped under ice gulps up before his body becomes too heavy to keep afloat.

Her body has long since become too heavy to keep floating. 

Pidge quickly rubs away the names, bruising her palm with the force of it. She can’t find it in herself to cry, she’s too tired for it. Instead, she thinks about how Matt vanished but Shiro came back. Shiro, who barely could look her in the eye at first, escaped with a missing hand and a small bundle of misshapen memories.

Pidge wonders if Matt even is alive, if his brain is as organic as Keith’s or is it data, downloaded to a server to activate proper function. The thought of her brother being nothing more than a vessel for the artificial sets her teeth on edge, makes her skin run warmer. She presses her lips to the glass to stop herself from screaming. 

“Pidge?”

Her name is spoken between roars of thunder, right in the static silence between, shocking her immobile. She can’t even turn her body around to face the speaker, frozen in a vulnerable position. It takes the awkward silence that stretches moments after for her to realize it’s Hunk that’s standing by the entrance. Pidge removes her face from the window.

Hunk approaches, his steps a lot harder than Shiro but there’s purpose in every movement. When he sits, she assumes it’s as graceful as the small smile worrying his lips. “Hey, Pidge.”

His attempts to be causal are ruined when Pidge refuses to face him. “Hey.”

“You know,” he starts and she can hear him shift, drawing closer. Their knees bump, the touch making her inhale. “We’ve been so busy lately, I never really had a chance to ask how you’re doing?”

Pidge is scared.

“Fine,” she says, turning to face him. Her cheek stings as blood rushes back. Her eyes waver when he looks at her.  Hunk won’t press her.

“You’re lying,” he presses.

“You’re right,” she starts but something other than relief builds in her body. She glares. “Nothing is fine. But I’m not the only fucked person here. Shouldn’t you be concerned for Shiro, stumbling around in the dark? Or Keith, with his constant maintenance--”

“Pidge--”

“Or  _ Lance _ ,” she hisses, narrowing her eyes. Her tongue burns her own lips. “I wonder how he’s handling everything without your incessant mothering. He can’t even take care of himself--”

“Pidge--”

“How are  _ you _ feeling, Hunk?  _ Huh? _ Are you okay? How are you able to look at me and ask me that fucking question? Are you feeling  _ good,  _ Hunk? Are you happy? Feeling needed? Maybe someone else can lose a limb so you could  _ matter _ \--”

The arm catches her off guard, shooting up to slap across her mouth. It stings, but it’s nothing to the look Hunk makes to the floor. The flashes of lightening paint him older than Pidge remembers. His shoulders look worn, having carried a weight no one could ever understand.

Except Pidge understands because she’s struggling to carry her own. 

Hunk’s fingers are warm, hard with calluses against her lips as they sit there in patches of darkness. Neither wants to break the lack of eye contact, but Hunk, brave and selfless Hunk, knows better.

“Pidge,” he starts, and his voice is as shaky as Pidge feels. It’s so soft. “I know  _ this _ hasn’t been easy. I  _ know _ .” Every word is a prayer, a small piece of Hunk that vanishes in the air between them. It’s tangible to Pidge, like small blocks of a bigger picture. She desperately wants to consume the vile she spat, wants to cling to those pieces because it’s Hunk who carries them all in the end. He’s got broad shoulders, has had them ever since they met. “But, you don’t have to suffer alone.”

“When I was young,” Pidge lets the tears fall, rolling past Hunk’s palm as she mouths against his skin. “I had a dog. Rover was his name and one day he just ups and dies.”

It’s so pointless and they’re both crying. Hunk waits for her to continue.

“He was such a good boy. Always listened and shit.” She can feel his fur under her frozen fingertips. “He died. He saved me but he died, Hunk.” Pidge doesn’t know what to do with her hands, so she reaches up and pulls his down, intertwining their fingers and holding him. It takes a while but Hunk’s wrist goes limp in her grip. Pidge wonders when was the last time Hunk ever let someone carry his weight. 

“I miss him. Hunk, I miss Matt.”

Hunk nods and there’s a smash of thunder but light never strikes. 

“You’ll see him again.”

Pidge pulls their hands until she can rest her forehead against them. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said those things.”

“Don’t.” His voice is sharp, nearly makes her wince. “You’re not wrong, you know?”

“No, if anything, there’s something  _ wrong _ with me.”

Hunk doesn’t answer, just shakes his hand free before standing up. “Whatever it is, you’ll fix it or make something new altogether. I mean, I’ve never heard of something you couldn’t crack.” 

Pidge wants to smile but her mouth isn’t working right. She watches as Hunk makes his way out of the training room. His shoulders don’t look so large now. “I hope you’re right.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> update coming next week. wish me luck.


End file.
